


Tie Your Dreams to Mine

by kittleimp



Series: The Morgan Gang [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Background Relationships, Fix-It of Sorts, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Multi, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, The Morgan Gang's Ranch for Ex-Outlaws, There's A Tag For That, in this house we respect abigail, it's nothing major you know how arthur is tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2019-11-06 01:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17930576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittleimp/pseuds/kittleimp
Summary: The Saint Denis Bank job goes south. Far south. Everyone survives by a hair's breadth, but Dutch's last shreds of trust are shattered, along with his gang. Arthur flees with the tattered remains of his family to find somewhere safe while they figure out what to do next.Once everyone is settled in place, Arthur climbs up in Eagle’s saddle. He only looks back one more time. Dutch is watching again from the window when he turns and leads the party out of Shady Belle.





	1. Prologue: Leave the World Behind, Part I

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to know more about this AU, send me an ask [here](https://morgan-callahan.tumblr.com/ask)!
> 
> All major divergences will be explained in the fic. The main pairing is John/Arthur, but this series will contain references to other relationships.

The bank robbery in Saint Denis goes horribly. It shouldn’t be a surprise after all the horrible luck they’ve had, but this particular disaster sets a ball of ice in Arthur’s stomach like none before it. It wasn’t a mistake in the planning. No unfortunate coincidence could have brought the entirety of the Saint Denis Police force _and_ the Pinkerton Detective Agency down on their heads like that.

Someone squealed.

Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea ride back from Saint Denis in silence. Hosea is nearly unconscious on the back of Arthur’s horse, but the weight of his arms around Arthur’s waist is a constant reassurance that he’s still there, still alright. They cauterized the gunshot in his shoulder the moment they could. When it heals Hosea will have gained a nasty scar nearly identical to the one Arthur bears from his brief stay with the O’Driscolls.

Dutch rides the lead on Count, with Eagle and her two passengers trailing just behind. The young Missouri Fox Trotter is Arthur’s newest horse and already proving to be worth the high price he paid. She keeps up with the Count’s steady canter effortlessly.

“It was Micah, Dutch. You know it was,” Arthur says, breaking the silence.

Dutch says nothing. Doesn’t even frown, just acts as if Arthur didn’t speak in the first place. Hosea squeezes Arthur’s waist and rests his head against Arthur’s shoulder. The rest of the ride home is quiet save for the sound of hooves beating against the earth.

The sun is resting on the horizon by the time they reach camp. There is no one to be seen. In the golden afternoon sunlight, they take in the carnage around them. Pools of blood seep from the cooling bodies that litter the dirt around Shady Belle and Arthur’s blood runs cold. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone move.

“It’s Dutch and Arthur!”

Javier’s familiar voice rings out from behind one of the pillars, seeming to shatter the heavy silence cast over the mansion grounds. Relieved shouts and chatter fill the air as the rest of the gang spills into the yard.

“What the hell happened here?” Arthur calls as they ride up.

“Pinkertons,” Javier replies, stepping out to meet them. He must have been on watch.

“You boys can talk after we have Hosea taken care of,” Miss Grimshaw interrupts, stepping past Javier to examine Arthur’s ride-along. “He looks in a bad way. Hosea, are you awake?”

“For the moment,” Hosea mumbles, slurring his words slightly.

Arthur dismounts and helps Hosea slide off of Eagle’s back. Miss Grimshaw takes her old friend’s weight and guides him into the house, leaving Arthur looking elsewhere for answers.

Time was, he would have looked to Dutch.

“Is everyone alright?” Dutch asks the gathered crowd as he climbs down from the Count.

“Nothing serious, just some bruises,” Charles assures him. “We got back and found the Pinkertons attacking. Sadie was doing a damn good job of leading the fight, but they would have been overwhelmed if we hadn’t showed up in time.”

Sadie nods, mouth twisted in a frown. “They knew we were here. From what Charles said, they seemed to know you were gonna hit the bank too.”

“These things happen,” Dutch begins and something in Arthur snaps.

“Bullshit, Dutch!” he interrupts. A fire lights in Dutch’s eyes. “Sometimes things happen, but not this. They knew exactly where we were and what we were doing. That doesn’t happen unless someone makes damn sure of it.”

“What are you saying, cowpoke?” a familiar voice growls. Lenny levels a murderous glare at Micah as the broad-shouldered man pushes him aside. As always, the greasy bastard is intent on being part of the action.

“I’ll dumb it down for you, Micah: there’s a rat,” Arthur snaps.

The camp falls silent for a breath as the reality of the situation sinks in. Arthur watches carefully, searching for any telling signs of panic from the peanut gallery, but his eye is caught by Micah’s growing grin.

“Of course there is, been saying that for a while now. I’d even say I’ve got a damn good idea who. After all, one of us has a hell of a lot more to gain by getting all friendly with the Pinkertons.” His eyes trail over to John, giving him an obvious once-over.

“Fuck you, Micah,” John spits. “This is my family, I would never-”

“Wouldn’t you?”

The quiet, sharp words stop John mid sentence. Dutch has everyone’s attention. Only once before has Arthur seen this cold fury in Dutch’s eyes - twenty years and he can only think of one time.

Arthur and John had just ridden back into camp in a flurry. It was a warm afternoon, peaceful and calm until they overheard the town’s cocksure deputy bragging to another officer. About how they were buying information from the newest member of a certain gang. Dutch had taken Henry to his knees in the middle of camp, ignoring the man’s frantic pleas for mercy.

Hadn’t even blinked as he put a bullet between Henry’s eyes.

Now, Dutch steps toward John with a hand resting on his gun.

“Are you serious?” John asks incredulously.

“You’ve got a family now, John, one you’ve finally started to accept,” Dutch points out with that calm, reasonable tone they’ve all heard a hundred times before. “The Pinkertons offered Arthur his life for my head, I’m sure they’ve made you the same offer.”

“We haven’t seen them since Valentine,” John protests, but Dutch isn’t one to be silenced.

“They showed up in Valentine just after you were fully healed up, didn’t they? And how lucky that you got away unscathed after they caught you.”

Arthur steps forward, trying to place himself between John and Dutch. The situation is too tense for this sort of infighting. A twitch in the wrong direction and everyone would pull their guns, he’s sure of it.  
  
“Dutch, John wouldn’t talk, you know that,” Arthur says. “Ain’t we been with you long enough to prove that?”   
  
“People change,” Micah counters.

“Shut up, Micah, this doesn’t concern you,” Arthur snarls.

That’s the twitch that sets everything off. Dutch draws his revolvers in the blink of an eye and has them leveled at John and Arthur. Micah follows suit, only to find himself already looking down the barrel of John’s Cattleman. Arthur points one of his revolvers at Micah, but the other rests by his side. Everyone else is frozen by the sides.  
  
“Is this what it’s come to, Dutch? You gonna shoot your own boys now?” Arthur demands.

“You know what we do to traitors, son,” Dutch growls.

“Ain’t sure I do, seeing as you’re letting one guide your hand!” Arthur retorts, shaking the gun he’s pointing at Micah for emphasis. Micah opens his mouth to speak, but Dutch beats him to it.

“Can’t believe you boys are turning your back on me now, after all these years. After everything I’ve done, everything we’ve been through, you’re gonna turn on me when I need you most?” The crack in Dutch’s voice breaks Arthur’s cold, shriveled heart.

“We ain’t turning on you, Dutch, we’re running from you,” John says quietly. “You’re fixing to blow our brains out because some nasty fella you ain’t even known a year has you thinking you can’t trust us. Can you really blame us?”

Arthur knows Dutch’s tells, as he damn well should after two decades. The leader’s grip adjusts ever so slightly. If he was ever ready to shoot them, he’s losing his nerve by the second. A few tense heartbeats go by while Dutch weighs his options and considers whether he should end the lives of his favorite sons, all over a possibility whispered into his head by a man he hardly knows.

They never find out what he would have chosen.

“Dutch Van der Linde, what the hell are you doing?” Hosea shouts from the doorway of the house. He’s on his feet, white as a ghost, and he looks downright furious. Miss Grimshaw hovers close behind him as he makes his way toward them on shaky legs.

For all that Dutch is their true leader, Hosea holds just as much power in a much quieter way. Every eye in camp is on him from the moment he speaks. Even now, swaying slightly on his feet and pale from blood loss, his very presence commands respect.

“This has gone on long enough. You haven’t listened to me for a while now, but I never thought you’d fall this far,” he scolds Dutch, as if their leader were an unruly child. “Those are our boys, Dutch, our sons, and you’ve got your guns on them.”

Finally, the words seem to sink in and Dutch lowers his revolvers to his sides, but doesn’t holster them. Arthur and John both lower their weapons in turn. Micah doesn’t budge until Dutch looks to him and then the whole camp seems to breathe for the first time in too many minutes. Even if the weapons aren’t in holsters, they’re at least down.

“We can’t stay here, Hosea, not after this,” John says tiredly.

His words spark soft murmurs around camp again. This tension has been simmering since Blackwater, but nobody wanted to be the first to say what they all were thinking: their time was running out.

“I agree,” Dutch grinds out, jaw clenched around his anger. “It’s best if you boys go.”

Those words pierce Arthur like a blade of ice. The world seems to float for a few long seconds while the meaning of those words sinks to his core.

Hosea simply nods, sadness and pain glazing his eyes in equal parts. “Stay until morning, at least. You shouldn’t go riding in the bayou at night.”

In the quiet that follows, Susan ushers Hosea back to the house. Dutch gives John and Arthur measured, pointed looks. With a final look of disgust, he turns on his heel and storms away with long strides. He doesn’t even glance at Hosea as he passes him and walks loudly up the stairs to his room. Micah follows. Arthur presses his eyes closed against a sudden, strong sting.

“I’m going to go get us packed,” John says softly. He makes his way toward the house, followed by Abigail with a shaking Jack in her arms. Arthur nods numbly.

“Anyone who wants to come with us, you best get packed too,” he tells the crowd still gathered around him. Every word feels as if it is spoken by someone else. “I ain’t gonna lie and tell you we’ll be safe, but we won’t be round here. The choice is yours.”

Nobody says a word as he walks to the house in a daze, stepping over Pinkerton corpses on the way.

\---

When morning comes, Arthur feels just slightly more grounded, but he credits that to the fact that he’s too exhausted to think. He slept maybe an hour throughout the night. The rest was spent packing everything he owns into the trunk he’s had since he was nineteen. Dutch bought him that trunk. Didn’t even steal it, went into a store and bought it proper as a birthday present to replace the old, bloodstained one Arthur had been using.

His clothes and few personal effects fit with room to spare. He takes some ammunition, but leaves most of it behind for the rest of the gang to use. Seems right, seeing how it is a communal stock. Everything else, he leaves behind. The alligator skull hanging above his window doesn’t have any place in his hurried flight from the only home he’s ever had.

Just before sunrise, Arthur walks down the stairs to visit Sean where the poor man is finally recovering from the injuries he got in Rhodes. The stump of his left leg, ending just below the knee, is no longer an angry red wound, but a fresh scar that he can’t stand the sight of. Another new one streaks across his nose. It was from the first bullet, which flew so close that it scored a line across his right cheek. Another half inch and Sean wouldn’t be alive to complain about the foot he lost.

When he enters the room, he finds Sean sitting upright on the couch and cleaning a rifle. His stump leg rests on his trunk. Tilly and Mary-Beth are sleeping on the floor nearby with chests of their own packed and ready.

“The girls told me what happened,” Sean explains softly and pauses to look up at Arthur. “Reckon we’re better off going with you than we are staying here. I’m pretty much dead weight, after all, so I wouldn’t be surprised if Dutch cut me loose.”

Arthur can’t help but think of when the bright, young Irishman was crowing about becoming the new favorite son.

“You’re welcome with me,” Arthur assures him and pats him once on the shoulder. Sean nods and returns to cleaning his gun. It’s already spotless. When Arthur steps out of the house he finds Hosea sitting in a chair by the door.

“Before you ask, Miss Grimshaw knows I’m out here,” Hosea says nonchalantly and for a heartbeat it’s as if nothing is wrong. But there’s a bandage on Hosea’s shoulder, Sadie is guarding a trio of trunks while Kieran and Charles sleep nearby, and Arthur wonders if anything will ever be right again.

“How’s your shoulder?”

His voice sounds hollow, but Hosea is kind enough not to mention it.

“I’ll live. The bullet went right through and didn’t hit anything too important, so it’ll just take some time, provided I don’t catch a fever.”

Arthur hums and they lapse into silence. The sun begins to warm the horizon. A sense of impending doom grasps Arthur’s chest, but he forces himself to swallow around it. Dutch has left him with no choice.

“It looks like you’re taking half the camp. Those three packed up last night,” Hosea says, eyeing where Sadie has begun to rise.

Arthur nods. “Sean, Tilly, and Mary-Beth too. And Marston’s family, of course. We ain’t taking anything that ain’t ours though, so don’t you worry about that.”

“I don’t have much on me, but you can have whatever cash-.”

“No,” Arthur interrupts. “Keep your money, Hosea, we’ll manage.”

“Then at least take a wagon,” Hosea insists.

“I ain’t stealing from you and Dutch.”

Hosea sighs and looks over to Arthur with sad, tired eyes. “You been with us for decades now, son. Everything in this camp is as much yours as it is mine or Dutch’s, so just take a damn wagon. You can’t carry trunks and supplies for ten people on horseback, especially seeing how Jack can’t ride on his own yet and Sean can’t ride at all.”

Arthur meets Hosea’s eyes for a long moment and the grief they share could fill a book.

“Alright, one wagon,” he relents, then pauses. Considers. It has to be said. “You could come with us, Hosea, you know that, right?”

Hosea shakes his head and winces as it pulls at his shoulder. “No, my boy, I can’t. If I go now then Dutch will lose himself entirely.”

Arthur simply looks away.

“We’ll be going back west,” he says, so softly that he isn’t sure Hosea heard him until he nods almost imperceptibly.

The camp rises early that morning. True to his word, Hosea sees to it that Old Boy and Branwen are hitched to one of the covered wagons the gang has traveled with for years. They load the trunks into the back quickly and are ready to go before Jack has finished blinking away his sleep.

“You ride safely now,” Miss Grimshaw commands, eyebrows pinched with worry as she looks over the ten of them. “You may not be part of this gang any longer, but you’re still my family, all of you.”

“Even O’Driscoll here?” Sean jokes, but Miss Grimshaw just smiles and looks to Kieran.

“You keep an eye on the lot of them, Mr. Duffy. Out of all of you, you’re the only one who’ll keep the camp running,” she says with a surprising amount of warmth. Kieran returns her smile with a simple “yes, Miss Grimshaw” as always.

Arthur realizes then that he’s been so busy with Dutch, Micah, and his own twisted conscience that he has missed the kindness growing right under his nose. Somewhere along the line the O’Driscoll prisoner had become Mr. Duffy to the grumpiest woman in the camp. Dutch still barely knows the boy’s name. As odd as it is, that’s the hit that drives the nail all the way in. This gang isn’t what it used to be and Dutch isn’t the man he once was.

“You don’t have to worry about us talking, Hosea. We never will,” Arthur says, stepping forward to meet the man who was more a father to him than his first ever was. He doesn’t tell him to worry about the remaining camp members. Hosea is smart enough to know.

“Of course, Arthur. You take care now, all of you,” Hosea says warmly, smiling despite the tears building in his eyes.

“And you get some rest, old man,” John replies with the same watery tone.

Farewells are exchanged, some more emotional than others. Karen plants kisses on her friends’ cheeks, Lenny wishes them all well, and Pearson presents Arthur with a small bundle of food for the road. It isn’t enough to make a dent in the camp supplies, but it is enough to keep them from going hungry for a few days.

Uncle wishes them well with uncharacteristic sincerity. Miss Grimshaw, ever the mother hen, nearly cries over them, something Arthur hasn’t seen her do in a good long while. Javier and Bill are colder, but they at least show their faces and make an effort to get past the betrayal Arthur can tell is burning in their guts. Micah sneers wordlessly from the balcony of the mansion.

Arthur spots Dutch in one of the windows, but the moment they meet eyes Dutch pulls the curtain closed.

With their farewells said, Arthur turns to John. “You, Jack, and Abigail ride on front of the wagon. Sean will ride in back.”

“Good idea,” John agrees and begins to help Sean into the wagon while Arthur continues.

“Sadie, Charles, mount up on your horses. Kieran, I want you riding Ennis, I know he likes you,” Arthur directs, receiving a nod from each person before they move to follow directions. “Tilly, Mary-Beth, ride in the back with Sean. Trade off keeping watch for anyone behind us.”

Once everyone is settled in place, Arthur climbs up in Eagle’s saddle. He only looks back one more time. Dutch is watching again from the window when he turns and leads the party out of Shady Belle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, [Scout](https://eukinlyptus.tumblr.com)!


	2. Prologue: Leave The World Behind, Part II

The ride is silent for much longer than is strictly comfortable. Arthur leads them west at a gentle trot, taking the well-worn road past Boulder Blade. A man on the road nods to them as they pass and a few of them wave back, but the weight of leaving home makes it hard to be in a friendly mood.

Having such a large group riding behind him makes Arthur’s chest tighten up in a way he can’t quite name. Part of him feels the guilt of splitting Dutch’s people, or encouraging some sort of disloyalty by leaving. Then again that isn’t exactly his fault. He and John were starting to talk about possibilities, sure, but they wouldn’t have left. Not yet, at least. Except Dutch held a gun to his head - to _John’s_ head - and Arthur can’t find a way to excuse that.

They’re just south of Rhodes when Sadie pulls Bob up on Eagle’s left. Kieran drifts to the side to make room, soothing Old Boy with a gentle pat and looking up with interest.

“It’s been an hour and I’m pretty sure we ain’t bein’ followed. So what’s the plan, Arthur?” she asks. It sounds, and bless her for it, like she has all the confidence in the world that he has one.

He does, it’s just… rough around the edges. Still forming. For now, locations will have to be a good enough answer.

“John, stop the wagon for a second!” Arthur calls back, then slows Eagle and circles back to meet him. The other riders bring their horses close to the wagon once it is still. Sean blinks his eyes open from the small space he was napping in, but everyone else is either riding, keeping watch, or too wound up to rest. Each of them looks to him and Arthur tries to ignore the weight that settles on his shoulders. It rests there nonetheless.

“We’re heading back west,” he announces to the gathered group. “Just a group of near-strangers who met up on the road looking for a safe place with steady work, that’s all.”

“Should we really be going back there?” Tilly asks, and her concern is fair, especially considering she hasn’t been back towards Valentine since they fled to Rhodes.

“We won’t go into any towns, at least not for a long while,” Arthur assures her. “I want as much distance between us and this mess as possible, and going north would take us back into the mountains.”

Charles nods solemnly. “The East Grizzlies are full of some nasty folk, too. I’ve seen some of the Murfree’s work and we don’t want to be getting mixed up in that if we can help it.”

“Charles and I cleared out a ranch the O’Driscolls were using back when we rescued Kieran,” Arthur says. “If we keep up a steady pace, it'll only take a couple of days.”

“What if they’ve already filled back in? Colm isn’t usually one for caution or patience,” John reminds him.

“Then we’ll deal with them,” Arthur replies with a steady voice and a reassuring half-smile. If two managed to take them down before, more can do it in half the time. “For now, I want everyone to strip their equipment. No bandoliers, no gun belts, just a single gun, alright? We look suspicious when we’re armed to the teeth and we can’t be catching eyes”

Some of them looks close to challenging that order, mostly Sadie and John, but everyone piles their equipment into the back of the wagon without more than an annoyed glare. With the unease settled, Arthur turns Eagle back to the road and pushes her back into a smooth, even trot while everyone falls back into formation. Kieran returns to his steady pace just off Eagle’s left flank and doesn’t say a word, but a quick glance shows him scowling at the idea of returning to that ranch, or to O’Driscoll territory in general.

“We ain’t gonna let them mess with you again, Duffy,” Arthur says, keeping his voice down so only Kieran can hear him. That draws the boy’s attention.

“It’d be less trouble if you let them take me,” he points out with something approaching resignation. Arthur sighs.

“You’ve more than proven yourself, at least to me.” Ain’t it a weird thing that his opinion is the one that matters most now? “We won’t be going after Colm like Dutch did, but we sure as hell ain’t gonna let them mess with us neither. And like it or not, you’re one of us.”

That shocks Kieran into silence. The boy looks like he’s close to tears and Arthur, despite his cold, shriveled heart, wishes he could pull the poor son of a bitch into a hug. Something tells him that Kieran Duffy has had a hell of a life in his twenty-odd years. In another time Arthur would have been ribbing him over his obviously emotional reaction, but it seems best now to pretend he doesn’t notice Kieran surreptitiously wiping a sleeve under his eye.

 

* * *

 

The calm quiet of that evening is shattered by distant gunfire. Every member of the caravan is tense and ready to fight within a fraction of a second, but the sound is too far to the north for it to be related to them. Shouts and the sound of screeching metal from over the hill set Arthur on edge. Flatneck Station isn’t far ahead, so it isn’t hard to figure out that someone must be robbing a train. It’s a good station to do it from - secluded, low-traffic, but close enough to Saint Denis that rich folks or valuable goods are likely to be involved. Smart, so long as the robbers can flee before the law shows. And the law will certainly show.

“Keep your heads,” Arthur tells those in earshot, who then echo it to the others around them. The Lemoyne Raiders can have the train if they want it so long as Arthur and his caravan are out of the area before the law arrives. More gunshots. Someone screams, high pitched and terrified. Arthur’s gut churns, but he doesn’t falter.

They ride on without stopping and ignore the ruckus they’ve put behind them. Some lawmen ride past on their way to investigate the train robbery, but nobody gives the small group of travelers a second glance.

Still, the tension swells. Everyone is rigid in their riding, hyper aware of everything around them, and even the horses are getting antsy. A break might do them good. Hell, it would almost certainly do them good, but they can’t afford to stop so close to Flatneck, especially when Arthur can see smoke that could very well be from a bounty hunter’s camp. Then Jack's little voice pipes up, carrying a familiar tune.

“I came from Ambarino with my banjo on my knee. I'm going do-own to Lemoyne, my true love for to see.”

The first few lines of Oh Susanna startle Arthur, but Jack’s pitchy singing brings a fast smile to his lips. Abigail, ever the quick one, jumps on board and continues the verse.

“It rained all night the day I left, the weather it was dry. The sun so hot I froze to death, Susanna don’t you cry,” she sings along. At the chorus, everyone else begins to join in. By the next verse their choir is ten strong.

None of them can keep their tension while singing such a sweet, silly song, and Arthur thanks whatever greater power there might be for sending such an angel to a group of demons. They sing about the telegraph and the river, then about the dream, and then John throws in a verse Arthur hasn’t heard before about a mine. Sadie adds another, this time about the mountains. Abigail adds on with a verse about a bar.

Finally, while they’re singing about finding Susanna in Saint Denis, Arthur spots an open, grassy area near the edge of the road and slows Eagle to a walk. Everyone follows him over as they finish the final chorus.

“Let's stop here for the night,” he calls out.

Everyone dismounts their horses. Charles and John join him in setting up a couple of tents, while Abigail and Tilly start a fire. Mary-Beth unwraps the small bundle Pearson packed for them to pass around for dinner. It is a fair amount of canned food, of course, but Arthur is pleasantly surprised to find some of the alligator meat he brought back a day or so ago has been cooked and dropped in with some fresh vegetables as well.

“We’ll continue on in the morning,” Arthur tells the group as they divvy up the care package. “Making good time so far. Might make it by tomorrow night.”

Jack sits in the grass while he waits to be given food and everyone follows suit. The ground is dry from too many hot days without rain, so at least they don’t have to worry about mud.

“Is this place going to be big enough for all of us?” Mary-Beth asks. “We don’t exactly have enough tents for everyone anymore, and sleeping on bed rolls in the open is bad enough when it's just one night.”

“There’s a house that should have plenty of room,” Arthur assures her and takes a mouthful of cold beans. Better to leave the gator for Jack, Sean, and the women.

Despite the tension that still runs through them like a current, the conversation stays surprisingly lighthearted. Tilly shares the story of a response song to Oh Susanna that she learned in her younger years. Won’t sing it, of course, not with all of them staring at her, but she is happy to tell them how the man found Susanna in Saint Denis, only to discover that she has no interest in him and has already gotten married. Everyone gets a loud laugh out of it.

They sleep in shifts when it gets dark enough, always keeping a few people awake to watch out for any trouble. A few wagons drive by and a couple men on horses wave as they pass, but the night is blissfully peaceful. Breakfast is quiet and quick, eaten in the dawn light between packing bedrolls and tents. Of course, that's when a stranger rides along on a dapple grey Thoroughbred. He slows, looking them over from the road, and then walks his horse closer to them. Arthur stiffens. Though his beard is well groomed and his hair is slicked back with pomade under his hat, this is no city boy. There’s a gun on his hip, a rifle on his back, and even more weapons strapped to his horse.

“Can I help you, sir?” Arthur calls out, abandoning his cup of coffee and pushing himself off the ground.

“Maybe, I ain’t sure yet,” the stranger replies amicably. _Bounty hunter,_ Arthur thinks to himself. Takes one to know one. “Tell me, what’s such a large group of folks doing camping out here like this?”

It might just take every lesson Hosea ever taught him about lying his ass off to get out of this one. Arthur shrugs, stepping around the gang. Their morning chatter has died down and all eyes are on the new man.

“We’re just travelling through, trying to find somewhere safe with some decent work. Safer to travel in numbers these days, it seems,” he explains just as he did to the gang earlier in the day.

“Where from?” the man asks.

“Well, O’Malley, the Miltons, and me, we were up past Annesburg originally. Everyone else we picked up on the way,” Arthur says with an ease he doesn’t feel.

“And what were you doing up there?”

Arthur frowns. “You’re a curious feller. Is there something you need, sir?”

The man pauses, likely to consider his options. He obviously doesn’t have the tact to navigate this conversation without setting off alarm bells. Still, he’s a bounty hunter, and even the dumb ones know to trust their gut.

“There’s some dangerous folks around,” the hunter replies evenly. “I’m in the business of tracking them down. Was hoping you might help me find some of them.”

Now it is Arthur’s turn to figure out how to address this. An instinctive part of his brain asks what Dutch would do, but he shuts it down quickly. Dutch has been far too unpredictable lately to emulate. Now, Hosea…

Arthur smiles and lets out a heavy breath.

“Thought you was gonna rob us, mister! Hard for us to know which ones are the dangerous folks and which ones are catching them. I’m Daniel Black, pleased to meet your acquaintance! Come sit down for a minute,” Arthur invites him, waving the man over to where the gang sits.

Though he hesitates for a moment, the man relents and joins the group.

“Glenn Canton. The pleasure is all mine,” he introduces himself as he settles in an empty spot on the ground. Every last person in the gang is staring at him and Arthur, fear on their frozen faces. _What would Hosea do?_ What indeed? Arthur takes a seat next to the man and pours him a cup of coffee.

“Well, Mr. Canton, I’m not sure we can be much help to you, but we’re happy to help however we can. Oh, and I apologize for not offering you more, but we are running terribly low on supplies. We’ll have to stock up at Valentine, or else hunt a few rabbits,” Arthur says, spitting out the first thing that comes to mind. Hosea always told him to create a story in his head and speak it as the truth, but he was never able to get comfortable with it. No time like the present to learn.

“Nearly a dozen of you and you don’t have enough provisions? How did that happen?” Canton asks with an amused smirk.

“Weren’t so many of us when we set out,” Arthur admits. “Like I said, some of us knew each other up north when we was working on the railroad. Then we met Mrs. May and Mr. Kelly in Annesburg, both looking for a way out.”

Arthur’s gesture toward Kieran and Mary-Beth indicates who he’s talking to well enough and Canton turns to them with a sharp look in his eye.

“Oh? What happened in Annesburg?” he asks curiously. Kieran balks at the question and looks to Arthur.

“Ain’t no shame in it, Kelly,” Arthur urges, then leans toward Canton as if sharing a secret. “He’s a quiet feller, maybe not right in the head. The foreman didn’t like him so much, was just waiting to fire him.”

“How kind of you to take him in,” Canton replies flatly. “And you, ma’am? Odd to see a lady like yourself out with a group so rough.”

Mary-Beth waves off the compliment with a forced smile. “I’m nothing fancier than the rest of these folk, sir, just a miner’s widow. Now that my husband has passed… well, without Mr. Black here I’d be on my own.”

She leaves the implication of what that means hanging in the air. Everyone knows that there are few jobs for women in a town like Annesburg and even less housing for a woman without a man.

“My condolences, ma’am. And the rest of you?” Canton inquires, eager to escape the uncomfortable topic at hand.

“Miss Abraham here worked for me and my husband,” Sadie says, nodding to Tilly. “A gang of thugs broke into our home thinking they could steal what they liked. They managed to take my home and my husband’s life.”

Mrs. Adler is, perhaps, the best liar of them all. She weaves the truth in so directly that she doesn’t even have to fake the sadness on her face. John puts a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

“The Night Folk in the bayou are vicious sorts. If you’re headed that way, be careful you don’t walk around alone after dark,” he cautions and most around the circle nod their head. They’ve all heard the stories of the mutilated corpses or stumbled upon them in the humid swamps.

“I met up with these kind folks just north of Saint Denis,” Charles continues, drawing Canton’s attention away before he can become too interested in details. “For the last few months I’ve been working at the docks, but that city’s gotten too dangerous for me.”

Arthur spots an opening and jumps back in. “We were actually trying to find some work there when we met him. He saved us a lot of trouble! Told us all about the gang that had been causing trouble in the city, robbing a riverboat and all that. Whole reason we started moving around anyway was because we wanted to find somewhere safer.”

“Safer than what?” Canton asks, as if he has found a gap in their pieced-together story, but he isn’t as on-edge as he was when he first sat down.

“The railroad, that’s what,” Arthur says firmly. “O’Malley here, the poor boy, had just started working with me and Milton when he got in an accident and lost his damn foot.”

“Ain’t no sort of place to raise a boy,” Abigail adds, holds Jack close to her, and glares at John. “Just a shame it took a kid getting disfigured for me to convince my husband to leave.”

“Can we do this later?” John groans. Even Arthur isn’t sure if that’s an act.

By some miracle, Canton seems to have fallen for their tall tale. He doesn’t ask them to repeat anything, which is good because Arthur can’t remember half the bullshit names they all just made up. Instead, he presses on the more dangerous subject.

“You were looking for some folks, though?”

“Yes, a large group, perhaps larger than yours, even. They’re a lot of outlaws calling themselves the Van der Linde Gang,” Canton explains grimly.

“Weren’t they the ones that robbed the river boat?” Charles asks so innocently that Arthur nearly laughs. “Everyone at the docks was talking about it.”

“They were, but they’ve done far worse now,” Canton continues. “Yesterday they tried to rob the bank, then shot up half the police in town when it didn’t work.”

Everyone in the gang falls uncomfortably silent. If Canton were sharper it would be a dead giveaway, but Arthur hopes it will read as shock or horror.

“I heard rumors that they rode west out of the city once they swam back to shore, but I don’t know anything else. I wasn’t working that night,” Charles offers quietly.

“That is help enough, sir,” Canton says, standing up eagerly and adjusting his coat sleeves. “Thank you all kindly for your hospitality and assistance. Stay safe on the road.”

As Canton rides away, hoping to be the first to follow such a promising lead on the state’s highest bounties, the gang breathes a sigh of relief. It’s a worthless piece of information. The family they left behind will already be gone by the time Canton shows up, if he even finds Shady Belle at all.

“Charles, I could kiss you,” Arthur laughs. “Thought he’d never leave.”

“Well don’t kiss me just yet, we have to get out of here before he takes another look at one of our posters,” Charles says, but he’s got a smile on his face as well.

Everyone begins to gather the remains of their food without needing direction. The mood isn’t low, though, in fact it is quite the opposite. John ruffles Jack’s hair and Abigail smiles at the sight. Mary-Beth and Sadie laugh along as Tilly does a dramatic impression of a bayou housemaid. Kieran and Charles help Sean stand up and get back to the wagon, with the redhead whining loudly about an accident involving a railroad spike. They’re high on surviving, it’s as simple as that. Arthur can’t help smiling along.

They set off again and Jack leads them singing Turkey In the Straw. Trail songs carry them for a while, then taper off into comfortable quiet once they reach the Dakota River. It’s not too deep since they haven’t seen rain and they cross with no trouble, then continue on down the road.

 

\---

 

Hours later, Arthur slows them to a stop alongside the Little Creek River. The roof of the ranch is visible from where they’ve stopped, but John’s concern from that morning sticks with him. Assuming that Colm will have abandoned the ranch could easily get them all killed.

“John, Charles, grab our weapons and come with me. The rest of you stay here and keep your guard up,” Arthur says. Sean hands them their belts, bandoliers, and extra rifles from where they were hidden in the wagon.

Once they’re properly armed, Arthur mounts Eagle once again. Charles does the same with Taima and Kieran steps aside to let John climb up on Old Boy’s saddle.

“We’re going to make sure everything is clear,” Arthur explains and looks over the rest of thoughtfully. “Sadie?”

She looks up at him from where she’s finished hitching Bob.

“You’re in charge until I get back. I’ll whistle three times if it’s safe to come forward. If we aren’t back in half an hour, get them out of here.”

“Of course, Arthur,” she replies with a smile. “Don’t you go letting that happen, though.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The three of them ride toward the ranch in a tight formation. It still feels strange to Arthur that he is the one at the lead, but now isn’t the time to focus on a feeling so inconsequential. Especially not once someone in a ratty coat pushes the front door open with a rifle leveled at them.

“What’re you doin’ here?” the man calls out with a thick Irish accent.

All three of them dismount and step forward, guns in their hands. Dutch would storm in and kill every O’Driscoll on the ranch. He’s done it before. Arthur, however, keeps his rifle pointed down. Time to find out what this feller needs.

“We ain’t here to fight you, or kill you, not unless you decide to make it that way,” Arthur replies calmly and leads his friends in a slow advance toward the main house. “Just wanna talk something out, that’s all. Can we agree to that?”

“Ain’t you Arthur Morgan? Dutch’s boy?” the O’Driscoll asks, narrowing his eyes. Someone else moves inside the house.

“That’s what I want to talk about, actually. I’m sure Colm ain’t here, but you could get a message to him, right?” Arthur asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Of course I could,” the man - if he’s even a man, as young as he looks - replies. He adjusts his grip on his rifle as Arthur gets closer. “But I ain’t giving him nothing unless it’s worth his time.”

“Tell him I ain’t Dutch’s boy no more.”

The words burn coming out, but he keeps a straight face. Later, once they’ve set up camp, that’s when he can let it out. Now he needs to use the attention he just earned from the boy in the doorway and whoever is hiding inside.

“Bullshit, you always been Dutch’s boy!” a similarly accented voice calls from inside. Another man pushes the first aside and aims a pistol at Arthur’s face. It isn’t anyone Arthur recognizes, but he talks like he’s been with Colm for a while.

“Boy, you gonna want to think carefully about waving that in my face,” Arthur snaps. “I’m trying to offer you a way to get out of this alive. Ain’t nobody gotta die today.”

Both of the O’Driscolls open their mouths to talk, but John walks up on Arthur’s right side and raises his repeater. That shuts them up pretty effectively.

“You should listen to him,” Charles suggests calmly from Arthur’s left and focuses his rifle’s sight on one of their heads. Now the men look ready to listen.

“There ain’t many of you here and there are plenty of us,” which is a lie, but they don’t need to know that. “I’m gonna give you two options: either you and anyone else in there die right now, or you go. You ride back to your main camp and you give Colm my message. Hell, I’ll even write a goddamn letter so he doesn’t kick your asses too badly. So make a smart choice and put your guns down, boys.”

Gambles like this don’t always play out. They could call his bluff, or they could have twenty more men hiding inside that house. Any number of things could go wildly, catastrophically wrong. This time, however, both O’Driscolls slowly lower their guns to the ground with wide eyes and shaking hands.

“Good. My kind men here are gonna take you inside and help you gather anyone else around. Don’t be leaving anyone behind,” Arthur warns, then waves John and Charles forward.

As they follow the O’Driscolls inside, Arthur gives three sharp, loud whistles. Eagle wanders over to him, responding like the faithful friend she is, and he gives her a firm pat. She’ll need a grooming tomorrow. While he waits for Sadie to lead the others up, he pulls out his journal and scribbles out a note.

 

 

> Colm -
> 
>  
> 
> Not that I think you’ll believe me, but I ain’t with Dutch anymore. All the issues you had with him, you may kindly leave me out of. You do that and I’ll forget that you tortured me in your basement. No need to be starting new feuds when we got all this law and civilization swarming around us.
> 
> This ranch is ours now. We’ll defend it if you make us, but I ask you to think before you do. You’d be firing on the women. Hell, you’d be firing on a little boy. I know you do what you gotta to survive, but murdering a boy who don’t even know how to hold a gun yet ain’t that.
> 
> I don’t know where Dutch is, nor do I know what he’s planning. He’s gone mad. Anything you might want to know I can promise you I have no answer for. These days Dutch is a stranger to me.
> 
> We ain’t friends, Colm, but we don’t need to be enemies.
> 
>  
> 
> \- Arthur Morgan

 

By the time Sadie leads the wagon through the ranch’s entry, John and Charles are seeing the two lone O’Driscoll boys off with his message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, [Scout](https://eukinlyptus.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 1: One Step At A Time, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a good time to clarify something about the pairings involved in this fic!
> 
> John/Arthur is the main relationship in this fic, but I will be mentioning or hinting at multiple others.

 

Examining the ranch has to wait until morning on account of the storm that rolls in. The sky had been clear while they rode, but dark clouds from the west approach quickly once the O’Driscoll boys leave.

“We’ll get the wagon and the horses settled,” Charles says, and he and John begin to lead them to the barn one by one.

Arthur leaves them to it. Inside, everyone is poking around the mess of a main house. By some miracle - or perhaps even foresight, hard as it may be to believe - the O’Driscolls left the windows intact. Or… mostly. The only one broken is close to the door, which may be how they got into the house in the first place. Other than that, the house is a mess of empty cans, dirty bedrolls, and an assortment of junk left over from its various tenants.

On the right of the entry door is a fireplace - with a fire still going from the previous visitors - and ratty sofa with a faded print. There’s a pot set to the side, looking recently cleaned - well, rinsed, at least. Scattered around that area are some recently-gathered piles of provisions, ammunition, and valuables that were likely gathered by the two O’Driscolls who returned. Stew pots aren’t cheap, after all. Neither is ammunition.

To the left of the door sits a sturdy table with a scattering of chairs around it. Someone threw a well-worn saddle over a half-wall and a single lantern is hung from a hook on the ceiling, but there isn’t much more to the area. Further in is another strange, empty space. There’s a door, a lone, small table in front of that door, and nothing else of note. An alcove on the right holds a cabinet and another door, but this one isn’t even connected to anything. Just a lonely, useless door leaned up against the stairs.

“Sadie, come with me to check the second floor. Everyone else, get that big table moved and find something to block the broken window,” Arthur directs, then turns to lead the way upstairs.

“This is a nice place,” Sadie comments as she follows behind him. “Seems built to house a family, too. How’d those rats get it in the first place?”

“Not sure,” Arthur replies honestly. Sadie hums in acknowledgement.

When they reach the top of the stairs they are able to look out onto the open loft. The roof slopes just above them, rendering some of the floor space useless, but it’s still a promising area. Near the back of the house is a wood stove, of all things. It’s a luxury Arthur has never had. Amidst the junk are two layered beds and a single bed to the side, which Sadie notices right away.

“Five mattresses? Damn, you really did find us somewhere nice,” she teases, already examining them for pests or other unpleasant surprises. The rain beats down on the roof above them and not a drop comes through.

“Jack should have the single bed, poor kid. You ladies could share the layered beds between yourselves,” Arthur suggests.

Sadie looks at him with an amused smirk. “They’re called bunk beds, Morgan.”

“Well excuse me then,” he replies with a biting tone, but his fond smile gives him away.

By the time they return to the ground floor Kieran and Tilly have moved the large table from the entry area to the small alcove by the stairs. Someone leaned the odd spare door against the broken window, which doesn’t stop the draft from coming through, but at least will keep the rain out. Sean is resting on the couch. John and Charles come through the front door just as Arthur hears thunder rolling off in the distance. Everyone looks to him and, just for a moment, the weight of everyone’s eyes makes Arthur wish he could crawl out of his skin.

“We’ll take a proper look in the morning, but we’re staying here for tonight,” he announces to the gathered group. “Jack and the women will bunk upstairs and Sean gets the couch. Everyone else sleeps down here. We’ll have two watch shifts, with two up at a time. First one’s me and John. Any questions?”

The tired silence is a resounding no, so Arthur waves his hand to dismiss everyone. Abigail picks Jack up and carries him up the stairs while his heavy eyes blink slowly. Sadie leads the other women up behind her, leaving Charles, John, Kieran, and Arthur to set up their bedrolls. They spread them on the ground and Kieran flops down to sleep right away. Given that he’s been stuck in camp for months on end, it’s no surprise that a day-long ride would leave him exhausted. Sean rolls over on the couch, disappearing from sight. Charles rests a hand on Arthur’s shoulder before he takes his place on the floor.

“We’ll make it, Arthur,” he says in that low, reassuring tone of his.

Arthur finds himself nodding, but can’t come up with any words. Charles, bless him, just pats his shoulder once and joins Kieran on the floor. John is already sitting in a chair he’s dragged over near the window when Arthur joins him. They sit together for long enough, just listening to the pounding of the rain and the howling of the wind, that they can hear Sean’s soft snores behind them.

“Do you think it could have gone different?” Arthur finally asks quietly, eyes never leaving the darkness outside the window. He doesn’t have to say what - or who - he’s talking about.

“No, I don’t,” John admits. “If Dutch was that far gone, he’d already made up his mind. I’d like to say he wouldn’t’ve actually shot us, but...”

“We can’t know that,” Arthur finished for him.

They’ll never know for sure what Dutch would have done in that moment had Hosea not spoken out. In the face of Dutch’s fury, the rest of the gang was hardly going to put themselves at the end of his barrel, and he was just as unlikely to have listened. Hosea and Miss Grimshaw were the only two who could have saved them in the first place.

“Hope they got out alright,” John mutters quietly.

“‘Course they did, they’re already gone. Probably up north a ways where there aren’t so many lawmen or gators,” Arthur tries to reassure him, but he realizes for the first time that he can only speculate. Will only ever be able to speculate. His breath catches in his chest.

As much as John goes on about the times he almost drowned, he’s not the only one. Arthur learned to swim when he was thirteen - before his time with Dutch - because there no better hiding place than under the docks. But then, one night when he’d been caught with his hand in a register, the local law wisened up. One of them leaned over the edge with a lantern to peek underneath. Arthur, quick as ever, ducked under the water and used the dock’s beams to keep himself pushed down.

Whether the man thought he saw something or if he was just trying to get out of looking someplace else, he stayed for longer than Arthur thought he would. And Arthur’s little lungs began to burn. It felt like a lifetime before the man stood back up, and even then the light didn’t disappear. It began to feel as though his chest itself were caving in. Pressure, on every side, and the flow of water dampening every sound. No way out but up. Right into the hands of the men who could easily hang him.

The man left with not a second to spare. Arthur surfaced as quietly as he could, but only the shouts of the lawmen declaring the docks clear had disguised his gasps for breath.

In the firelit living room of the ranch house, Arthur feels like he’s drowning once again.

“Breathe, Arthur,” John is saying gently in his ear. Maybe he has been for a while, it’s hard to say. A tear rolls down his cheek, clearing a path through the dirt coating his face. There’s hardly any space between their chairs now. Gently, firmly, John rests a hand on the back of Arthur’s neck and pulls him in close, until his forehead is leaned against John’s shoulder.

Time comes unstuck while they sit like that. John cards his rough hand through Arthur’s hair - too long already, but he won’t be seeing a barber for some time - and murmurs soothing words. Eventually Arthur manages to pull in a few lungfuls of air, but he notices that John is shaking too, so he only wraps an arm around him and stays close.

They’ve been Dutch’s boys for decades. Now what are they?

If Charles or Kieran are awake to hear the crisis happening by the back window, they are kind enough to stay silent. Arthur and John stay leaned together long after they’ve finished shaking apart. For just a moment, it feels like the old days. They could almost be leaned together in some tent taking pleasure in each other, or simply in each other’s presence. If only reality would stay away.

“You don’t gotta do this alone,” John says softly against Arthur’s ear.

In another lifetime he’d tell John he loves him for that. The thought is clear as day, but Arthur nods against John’s shoulder without speaking. After all, there are things that best go unsaid. Someday they’ll have that conversation about how exactly they fit together, what with John’s strange little family and Arthur’s occasional tumbles with Charles, but now is not the time. They untangle themselves slowly and John reaches for something at Arthur’s waist. It makes his heart skip until he realizes that John is pulling his journal out of his satchel.

“Go on, write some,” he encourages, pushing the journal into Arthur’s hands. “You always feel better once you do.”

Arthur takes the journal with a smile he can’t help. It’s just the corners of his lips, ever so slightly turned up, but John can see it like a beacon. He smiles back. This time the silence isn’t quite so heavy as Arthur scribbles out the events of the last two days over the thick pages.

First, the details of the bank job gone wrong. Then what happened when they returned to camp. Waking up, to find that John’s family and him weren’t heading out alone. Saying farewell. He pauses there to write a small list of who came with him and who stayed behind just in case he lives long enough to forget those details. Then he continues on about the ride there, the bounty hunter, those two boys they chased off, and the rain pouring down on the roof right that second.

John may not be right about most things, but he is right about this. Writing is like balm over cold, cracked skin for Arthur. When he closes his journal he can finally breathe properly again. They don’t talk. Hours later, they wake Charles and Kieran and lay down to sleep.

 

\---

 

The morning brings a tired shuffling and the soft clanging of a coffee percolator being filled. Arthur opens his eyes to find Kieran half asleep by the fire. Sean sits on watch instead of Charles, who is sleeping against a wall.

“I offered,” Sean clarifies quietly once he notices where Arthur is looking. “Figure it’s better to have him rested enough to hunt some food today.”

It’s a good point, one Arthur wishes he’d thought of, so he just nods and checks the old, stolen pocket watch he has tied to his satchel with a bit of string. Nearly eight. There isn’t much to eat, but the trek across the muddy ground out to the barn to retrieve the remainder of their rations from the wagon. When he returns he nudge’s John’s sleeping form with his boot.

“Marston, get up,” Arthur says. John grunts and frowns up at him with bleary eyes, but slowly staggers to his feet nonetheless. Mary Beth peeks down from the loft above them.

“Arthur? Everything alright?” she calls out just loud enough to be heard.

“Wake the others up, we’re having a meeting,” Arthur replies.

They’re all gathered around the fireplace within a quarter hour, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Kieran pours coffee from the pot for anyone who asks and Arthur passes around the remains of their rations. If anyone notices that he gives his portion to Jack, they don’t comment.

“Dutch was always the boss, as far back as I remember,” Arthur begins, breaking the weighted silence. “Nobody ever questioned him. Even Hosea and I only ever had so much sway over him, especially once he decided to stop listening to us. I can’t help thinking that it’s a big part of how we ended up like this.”

Nobody has to ask what he means, not with their family shattered across the states. All nine people in the room stare back at him with a reflection of his own grief in their eyes.

“Way I see it, that’s the first thing that we need to change. Ain’t nobody getting punished for having doubts, not while you’re here. Everyone gets a say in what we do next, even little Jack,” Arthur says, looking from person to person to gauge their reactions.

“What if we can’t agree?” Sadie asks, ever the realist.

“Then we compromise the best we can, or go by votes. America’s supposed to be a democracy, ain’t it?” Arthur replies and she leans back, apparently satisfied with his answer.

“So what what ideas do you have? About what to do next, I mean,” Tilly pries, sitting forward in her seat.

“Well, we need to decide that, which is part of why I figured we should have a meeting,” Arthur explains. “For the moment I think we should stay here, but I want to hear what all of you think.”

“Feels awfully close to all the messes we’ve stirred up,” John points out, garnering a few murmurs of agreement from the crowd.

“It’s as far from Saint Denis as we can get without running into the mountains,” Charles counters.

“And we sure as hell can’t be trekking through the mountains like this,” Abigail adds quickly. “We have one wagon, no supplies, and I can still see snow up there. It’d get us all killed.”

“The mountains don’t care for seasons like the rest of the land does,” Sadie agrees. “My old barn and Colter both have shelter, but it ain’t worth much if it don’t warm up enough to live properly.”

“What about going west? That’s what we were planning before Blackwater,” Sean suggests and Arthur pauses to consider the idea. They’ve gained a few new faces since that disaster, so there might be a chance to sneak by using Kieran and Sadie.

“We’d never get past the border. Can’t hide enough of us in a wagon with room left for supplies, and we don’t have anywhere to go once we’re down there anyway,” Mary-Beth reminds them.

“It’s something to keep in mind for the future, though. Once things around Blackwater calm down we might be able to slide by into Mexico, or at least get around the mountains and go to California,” Arthur says and makes a mental note to write that possibility in his journal.

“I think Arthur’s right,” Kieran pipes up timidly. The unexpectedness of his addition draws every eye in the room, which in turn has him flushing pink.

“Do ya?” Sean asks with a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Yes,” Kieran replies firmly. Sean raises his eyebrows, but falls silent to hear him out. Taking that as permission, Kieran continues. “There’s ten of us and that’s a pretty big group, definitely more than enough to get noticed on the road. Like Charles said, we’re pretty far from Saint Denis, plus we’re not particularly close to any big towns. We can keep to ourselves here until the law gets tired of looking and have a roof over our heads too.”

Arthur looks around, trying to spot anyone who looks uncomfortable with the idea, but they all seem to see the wisdom in Kieran’s words.

“There’s enough game around here to keep us fed and probably some herbs in the field too,” Charles points out, gesturing vaguely at the grassy expanse they passed on their way in. “We wouldn’t have to worry about provisions for a while, at the very least.”

“It’s early enough in the season that we could start a small garden,” Sadie adds.

“I like it here, it’s pretty,” Jack announces, much to the amusement of everyone else.

Arthur smiles as they share ideas back and forth. Tilly and Mary-Beth both mention how easy it would be to keep things clean with Little Creek River so close while Kieran mentions that the horses would have plenty of space to graze. Jack asks Abigail if this means he can explore, Sadie and Charles start discussing what they could plant, and Sean asks John teasingly if it’s too close to wolf territory for him. John laughs and tells him to fuck off.

“So is everyone alright with staying here for a while?” Arthur asks over the rising noise of an excitable gang. There is no disagreement from them, just the first glint of hope he’s seen in a while. “Alright, then let’s all take a look around.”

Arthur reaches into his satchel and pulls out his journal, then carefully tears a page out of it. He sets it and a spare pencil on the shelf over the fireplace.

“Make a list of any repairs we should make or problems you notice and we’ll see what we can do. Tilly, Mary-Beth, you’re on first watch,” Arthur says.

“I’m going to head out hunting,” Charles announces. “Arthur, will you come with me? We don’t need to be firing guns around here right now and you’re good with that bow.”

“Sure,” he agrees, then turns to the gang. “We’ll be back in a while with some food. John, keep an eye on everyone.”

As he and Charles ride out to the woods, their new home buzzes to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to [Scout](https://eukinlyptus.tumblr.com) for being my beta! I'd also like to give a shout out to [Blaithinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blaithinx/profile) for catching a typo in chapter 1.
> 
> Everyone who has left comments, thank you so much! The kudos are heartwarming to see, but your comments are what helped keep me going when I got stuck. They mean the world to me.
> 
> If you want to poke my brain about this au, send me an ask on [tumblr](https://morgan-callahan.tumblr.com)!


	4. Chapter 1: One Step At A Time, Part II

Their next weeks are consumed by the endless task of patching the old ranch. Luckily the O’Driscolls didn’t do too much lasting damage to the main house or the barn, but every inch of the walls needs to be chinked and daubed to stop the wind from coming through between the logs. To their misplaced surprise, Sadie leads that task with confidence. 

“Who do you think built that house you burned down?” she retorts with a raised eyebrow when Arthur asks if she’s done this before. That’s all he needs to hear.

Everyone, even Jack, joins in on packing hay and hair between the logs, along with anything else they can find that won’t rot. Sadie directs them in creating large amounts of some odd mixture - mud, in part, and also horse hair and a number of other things Arthur prefers not to think too deeply about. It’s disgusting. Also impressive.

John, Charles, and Arthur pull down the dilapidated hut next to the house and use the salvageable scraps of wood to cover the broken window. It isn’t pretty, nor is it going to last, but it’ll keep the wind and rain out. 

A couple of weeks later there’s no longer a draft flowing through the main house at all hours. Everyone has settled uneasily into their new home by that point - settled, but not relaxed in the slightest.

Without any news from the outside world they all remain on edge. Who knows what became of Dutch? Their family? The Pinkertons? Anxious arguments haven’t started yet, though the tense silence is terrible in its own way. Arthur himself paces the floor whenever he isn’t otherwise occupied. It’s one of those times that John finally corners him in the main room.

“Come outside with me,” he says in a voice that invites no argument, blocking Arthur’s path.

“John-” Arthur begins to protest.

“Nuh-uh, none of that,” John interrupts. “Let’s walk the fence.”

There are few things that translate so directly to “we need to talk.” Giving a resigned groan, Arthur follows John out to the splintered fence surrounding the ranch, where they begin a slow lap around the land.

“We ain’t talked much about what we’re doing here,” John starts. He says it as if it was meant to be off-hand, even casual, but the anxious edge to his voice gives him away.

“That’s because we ain’t decided on anything but staying,” Arthur points out.

“I know, but we need a plan,” John insists. There’s that goddamn word again. “The Pinkertons aren’t just gonna forget about us. If we don’t know what’s going on before they show up, they’ll just gun us down.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Arthur snaps and presses his fingers to his eyebrow, where a sharp headache is building.

John stops walking and hooks his hands into his belt. “I think you know a lot, but you’re forgetting that you ain’t gotta do this alone.” When Arthur stops and turns back to him, still tense and ready to strike, John simply holds his hands up. “We’re all in the same shit, Arthur. Dutch ain’t here to tell us what to do now - and yeah, all these fools seem to be looking to your dumb ass for some reason.”

“I ain’t suited for this,” Arthur interrupts in a harsh whisper. He steps closer to John to keep their conversation from being overheard by anyone who might pass by. “Really, John, I ain’t got the brains for this. All I am is muscle, you and I both know that. Charles is a better bet for calling the shots. Or hell, even Sadie.”

As Arthur speaks, John steps closer as well. He could almost be squaring up. They’re nearly nose to nose at this point and Arthur can feel the tension winding between them. Just as he’s starting to consider the consequences of giving John a shiner, the dumbass reaches out and rests his hand gently on Arthur’s arm.

Leave it to John to make something sweet look like a fight.

“Sadie’s a good woman, but she’s too green and impulsive. We’d end up dead,” he points out, lowering his voice to match Arthur’s. “And Charles has the experience, but I don’t think he’d even want to.”

That earns a soft huff of laughter from Arthur. “Yeah, pretty sure he’d kill us all himself.” John pauses to give that a chuckle of his own before he continues.

“People respect you, Arthur, and they know you ain’t half as dumb as you say. Hell, I’m one of the fools following you, ain’t I?” Arthur opens his mouth to speak, but John squeezes his arm to silence him. “We trust you, but you also gotta trust us. You and I known each other for long enough, ain’t we? So just talk to me.”

Chastened, Arthur nods with that little smile John has seen so many times over the years. Just the corners of his mouth turn up, one more than the other, and he won’t meet John’s eyes. It isn’t the annoyance of having his mistakes called out. Hell, it isn’t even the discomfort of being embarrassed, at least as far as John can tell. Just the unique feeling of being known.

“Charles asked the same thing, actually - about what we’re doing here. Got me thinking about what we been doing these last few months,” Arthur explains. His voice is no longer the gruff, angry hiss from before, but a more gentle whisper. “I think Dutch was right about settling down, but we went about it the wrong way.”

“Land-owning folk don’t usually rob and murder. Wonder why we didn’t manage?” John says sarcastically.

Arthur snorts. “I’m thinking we gotta start there. If we try to live decently, maybe we’ll find that we become decent folk.”

“Or close enough to them that it don’t matter,” John agrees, the corner of his lips pulling up into the suggestion of a smile. “I’ve got your back here, Arthur. Pretty sure we all do, else we wouldn’t have followed you.”

Arthur ducks his head to hide a self-conscious smile under his hat. His thumbs tuck into his belt and John’s hand falls away. It’s a reflex John has seen a million times before, whenever Arthur can’t quite figure out how to wave off a compliment, but also can’t bring himself to accept it.

It’s somehow… sweet. Sure, he’s a wanted criminal, but nobody can ever go claiming Arthur isn’t a humble man. John reaches out and claps Arthur on the shoulder. Squeezes, just once. Then Arthur finally meets his eyes again and now it’s too much, too close, so they both step back too quickly.

“So… you should tell everyone else about all that,” John suggests. “Think they could use something to boost morale.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Arthur says. “You also had a good point earlier, we need to know what’s going on out there. You’re on a roll today.”

John elects to ignore Arthur’s smirk.

“Sadie’s the only one of us who might be able to go into town unnoticed,” he points out.

Arthur furrows his brow. “Not Kieran?”

“This is O’Driscoll territory.”

“That’s true. I’ll talk to her about it,” Arthur decides with a small nod to John. “I’ll see you later, then.”

He leaves John and continues wandering alongside the perimeter of their camp, chewing on his lip and thinking about every pot they’ve got boiling. Just as he’s finishing his lap, he notices Sadie washing a coat of mud off her hands for a lunch break. She must feel his gaze because she looks up and tilts her head in greeting. Well then, that helps his most immediate problem, at least.

“Sadie, I need a favor,” Arthur says as he approaches the wash-bin of dirty water.

“Sure, Arthur, what is it?” she replies, raising her eyebrows.

“Need you to ride into Valentine and buy a newspaper. Take Branwen, she won’t draw much attention.”

That makes her pause. “You want me to ride into town? Are you crazy? We’re being hunted across the country, Arthur!”

“I know that,” he admits, raising his hands to placate her. “But you ain’t been with us long. If you borrow a dress from Mary-Beth and ride sidesaddle, no one’ll look at you twice. Same can’t be said for the rest of us.”

“For a newspaper, though?”

Arthur sighs. “We need to know what’s going on out there, especially if there’s word about the Pinkertons or Dutch. Anything could have happened since we left.”

“That… that’s true. Alright, I’ll go tomorrow morning,” Sadie agrees. “I want to be the first to say it’s a dangerous move, though.”

“Noted,” Arthur laughs. “Thank you, Sadie.”

She pauses as if there is more at the tip of her tongue. Arthur waits patiently. Finally, as if she’s just made a decision, she wipes her wet hands on her pants and steps back from the bin.

“See ya later,” she says jovially. With no fanfare, she walks into the house where a bland venison stew awaits. Arthur watches after her with a growing pit in his stomach, but there’s nothing he can do for the unknown matter except hope it isn’t anything too dire.

 

\---

 

True to her word, Sadie rides off on Branwen the next morning after breakfast - with Kieran’s blessing, of course. Branwen’s been with him for longer than they have, after all, but he has no complaints when he hears who’s taking his dear horse. Sadie cares for the horses almost as much as Arthur does, and he cares almost as much as Kieran does. Branwen will be safe with her.

Once Sadie has disappeared from view, Arthur gathers the rest of the gang into the main room of the house. It won’t take long, and it’s better that he does this all at once. They gather around the couch that Sean has turned into his bed and face the fireplace that houses the nearly empty stew pot. Arthur stands before them and feels the pressure on his chest once again, but pushes the feeling aside. No time for that.

“John and I have been talking about what we’re doing here,” he begins. “It’s a good question and I think we’ve got a good answer, but like I said before I want everyone involved.”

“You mean you ain’t just gonna tell us you’ve a  _ plan? _ ” Sean asks, drawing snorts and eye rolls from the gathered group. Arthur shoots him an unamused glance, but he can’t deny that Dutch had started sounding like a broken record.

“Dutch wanted to see us living somewhere stable for once, but it’s true that he wasn’t clear on how we’d get there,” Arthur admits.

“Are we still going to Tahiti, then?” Tilly asks flatly.

Mary Beth makes a sound of distaste. “I think Lemoyne proved that we aren’t meant for tropical weather.”

“Actually, we’ll be better off starting here,” Charles says and Arthur gives him a grateful nod. At least he can count on Charles to get them back on track.

“He’s right. The problem wasn’t with where we were, just what we were doing.” That seems to draw their attention back to him. Now he can get to the point. “It’s been made obvious to us that there’s no place for outlaws in this new world, but we insisted on acting like outlaws anyway. If we want to be honest folk, we should start acting more like honest folk.”

His words process for a few moments before the chaos begins. Everyone speaks over each other, rising from talking to shouting in a span of seconds. Charles and John exchange a quick glance, a nod, and John takes a deep breath.

“Quiet, all of you!” he yells over the din. It isn’t any sort of deep growl that carries like thunder, but his raspy voice is unique enough to catch the ears of the gang. Slowly, reluctantly, they fade to uneasy silence.

Charles takes over once he can be heard. “They’ve got a plan, so why don’t we give it a listen before we start doubting?”

None of them seem particularly thrilled, but nobody speaks out. Arthur looks to both Charles and John in appreciation before he continues.

“As much as Dutch tries to claim otherwise, we’ve been criminals and killers for as long as I can remember. It don’t matter why we started, that don’t change what we’ve done - but that’s the past. We can’t keep living like that, you all know we can’t,” Arthur reminds them, as much as it makes his heart ache to say. “So either we die like outlaws, or we find a way to be something else.”

“We got bounties on us, Arthur,” Sean reminds him oh-so-helpfully.

“I know we got bounties, Sean. Sadie’s gone out to get an update on that mess and we’ll know more when she gets back. I’m working on a few possibilities, so you just let me worry about that for now.”

Not that he knows what he could possibly do, beyond hand himself over. It might work if all else fails. He’d rather avoid that.

“I think Arthur’s right,” Charles announces and that first agreement is like a weight off of Arthur’s chest. “If we keep running around like criminals we’re just going to get hunted down and killed. We all came here to avoid that.”

Those words resonate with the group enough that nobody counters him. They’ve been avoiding the topic, but Charles has managed to sum up what led them to join John and Arthur in their flight from Shady Belle.

“Anyone who would rather keep to the old ways won’t see any fight from me,” Arthur assures them. “You just can’t do it here. Once we manage to get the prices off our heads we can’t have any new ones getting added.”

“So either we fall in or get gone?” Tilly asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s how it’s gotta be, Tilly. If they can find an excuse they’ll come for us all,” John reminds her.

“We ain’t gonna just kick anyone out on the dirt,” Arthur adds. “We’ll give you what we can to get you started, the law won’t ever hear a word from us, but we can’t have a foot in both worlds. Ain’t nobody gotta leave while we’re all lying low, just… think on it.”

The discomfort of the unknown is gone, replaced with the promise of a choice on the horizon. Arthur opens his mouth to try to soothe the unease only for a sudden pounding on the door to make everyone jump. Hands fly to rifles and revolvers. Jack ducks into Abigail’s skirts and John steps in front of them without thinking.

“Arthur Morgan, get out here!” a familiar, lilting voice calls out. Through the window, Arthur can see whoever pounded on the door scurry back to the crowd of men that’s invaded their yard. In the middle of them is a man with long, grey hair, a tattered black waistcoat, and a green neckerchief. Arthur’s stomach turns.

“What do you want, Colm?” he shouts back, swinging his rifle off his shoulder.

“Just a friendly chat, of course!”

That, he finds hard to believe. When he turns back to his family he keeps his voice low.

“Abigail, take Jack upstairs. Tilly, Mary-Beth, you get up there too. If fighting starts up you’ll have to climb out the window, down the roof, and run into the woods,” Arthur instructs, leaving no room for argument. They spring into action. “Charles, Sean, you keep guns trained on this door.”

Charles tosses Sean a rifle and the two of them get set up to watch the door. Sean uses the couch as a perch and a shield while Charles crouches closer to the stairs.

“Kieran, I want you on my left. John, my right. Both of you stay calm and don’t go pointing your guns at anyone until you ain’t got a choice, you hear?” Arthur asks. Colm is yelling for him again. Both of them nod and move their guns to their waists, as if they’re just going for a guard shift. Instead of mirroring them, Arthur slings his repeater over his shoulder.

The moment he pushes the door open, he raises his hands above his head. Kieran and John follow him out to face the dozen men waiting for them. Not a shot has been fired yet and that will have to be enough to keep Arthur’s last nerve from fraying entirely.

“I take it you got my letter?” Arthur asks casually. He stops ten paces from Colm.

“Yes, and decided I had to come see for myself,” Colm sneers. “Can’t believe that the loyal dogs have finally run off on ol’ Dutch.”

“ _ He _ was the one run that ran  _ us _ off,” John corrects bitterly.

“John’s right. Us and Dutch had a… disagreement, regarding trust,” Arthur explains.

Colm laughs. “Dutch stops trusting you and you run off with half his gang. Wonder why he doubted you?”

Arthur grinds his teeth and strains to keep his tone even. “These folk came with us because they were tired of running and robbing. We ain’t doing that no more; we’re here to start playing by the rules of the new world.”

This time, the laughter ripples through all of the gathered O’Driscolls. Colm sneers.

“And what exactly made you think trespassing in our territory and invading our ranch is a good way to start?”

“This weren’t your main hideout, you ain’t that dumb,” John snorts.

“We saw the place when we rescued Duffy,” Arthur reminds Colm. “It’s too dangerous for you anyway, now that your deal with the law about Dutch fell through. Even your women would be better off camping in the forest at this point.”

The jab at Colm’s failed attempt to lure Dutch to his doom draws a dark anger over Colm’s expression. He’s smart enough not to elaborate on that, given how divided his men were on the subject even when they had Arthur half-dead in their basement. What he does instead is zero in on Kieran.

“Ah, I knew that weasel looked familiar,” Colm says with a slow, predatory smirk. “ _ Kieran Duffy. _ Boys, you remember him, right?”

Every one of Colm’s men hollers something suitably crass and vile. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see Kieran’s eyes widen. The way his knuckles go white on his gun says more about how they treated him than Kieran himself ever has. Deciding the risk is worth it, he takes his eyes off Colm and looks right at their poor ex-O’Driscoll.

“Aw, don’t mind them, Kieran,” Arthur drawls casually. “They’re just upset they lost the best horse trainer they’ll ever find. Can’t blame them for that.”

Kieran meets his eyes. A shaky smile is as good as anything for signaling that he’s standing his ground. Satisfied, Arthur turns back to Colm.

“You seen what you wanted to see here, Colm. Now what?”

Colm leans back and taps his fingers on his gun. “I must admit, you put me in a bad position, Arthur. Even if I wanted to let you stay, I can’t have another gang of dastardly outlaws working our territory.”

“Good thing we ain’t a gang of outlaws,” John replies evenly.

“Now Mr. Marston, how am I to trust the word of two men who turned on their own mentor?” Colm asks sweetly, as if he truly is troubled by the situation. Arthur raises his hands just a little higher.

“Way I see it, you got two options. Either you leave us be, or you kill us all here and now,” Arthur says. The second option earns a few cheers from the gathered O’Driscolls.

“That  _ is _ sounding tempting.”

“Is that really the sort of man you’ve become?” Arthur asks, narrowing his eyes. “I known you for more than ten years, Colm. You may be a bastard, but I never thought you were the sort to gun down a house full of women and children when it wouldn’t earn you a dollar.”

Colm sneers. “As if you didn’t steal something from Dutch’s stash before you ran away.”

“Don’t confuse what you’d do for what I’d do,” Arthur advises coldly.

Colm doesn’t have anything to refute that with. Dutch’s boys are well known for their abnormal lack of greed and odd loyalty to their gang. Even though they’ve left, Arthur and John haven’t given any indication that they would stoop that low.

“We ain’t Dutch’s boys anymore, Colm. If you want to kill us all we can’t stop you,” Arthur says with casual disinterest, as if he isn’t talking about his own death. “There’s a one legged man on the couch, he should be an easy target. Upstairs you’ll find some women and a child. His name’s Jack. He ain’t ever held a gun before, so worst he’ll do is bite you, but he’ll probably try to make friends with you first.”

John tenses. The gun’s wood creaks under his grip. Arthur glances over to him, then back to Colm.

“Better make sure you kill the rest of us first, though,” he warns. “Last man who laid a hand on that boy got fed to a gator.”

The men behind Colm look significantly less bloodthirsty after finding out who they’re here to kill. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve had young blood on their hands, and definitely not the first time they’ve hurt women, but without money as a motivator they seem less keen on killing a child. Colm can read the shift in mood as well as Arthur can. They wouldn’t turn on him for this, not now, but he doesn’t have his gang’s faith the way Dutch used to and he knows that. Murdering a young boy might cause enough doubt to convince someone to cut a deal with the law.

“We’re not here to kill you, Morgan,” Colm snaps irritably. “This is your  _ warning,  _ the only one you’ll get. If you’re going to play at being honest folk, then you better act like them. We hear you’ve so much as picked a pocket and we’ll make sure the boy gets to watch every last one of you die. Is that clear?”

“As glass,” Arthur replies and lowers his hands, trying to hide the relief that washes through him. “Safe travels, Colm.”

“Happy ranching,” Colm sneers and leads his men out the ranch’s front gate.

Kieran, Arthur, and John don’t move an inch until the sound of hoofbeats fades past hearing. John is the first to let out a shaky sigh, followed by a laugh from Kieran that sounds, to put it plainly, unhinged. Arthur rubs absentmindedly at the rough scars on his left shoulder.

“You think he’ll actually leave us alone?” John asks, but doesn’t sound hopeful.

“Not a chance.”

He leads them back to the house and knocks on the door. Charles opens it a moment later and ushers them inside. The women are already making their way back down the stairs.

“Charles, Kieran, you go find us some more food,” Arthur says. “We’ll have a guard tonight, but I don’t think he’ll give us any trouble for a while. He’s gotta find a way to justify messing with us or he risks one of his boys selling him out.”

Everyone slowly drifts back to their daily tasks and chores, but tension still hangs in the air. There are too many questions still unanswered and too many unknowns in their path. Once again, Arthur begins to pace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm running a discord server for RDR2 creative types! The goal is to give RDR2 fandom creators a place to gather and chat. The server is open to anyone 16+ (all NSFW channels are strictly 18+, of course) so please feel free to join using [this link](https://discord.gg/jASd8jE)! You don't have to have art or fics posted to join, just a love for the series and a friendly attitude.
> 
> Thank you to my beta, [Scout](https://eukinlyptus.tumblr.com/)!


	5. Chapter 1: One Step At A Time, Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some very minor changes are being made in previous chapters. The only notable one is the travel time from Shady Belle to the new location. Prior to 5/14/19 it was referenced as taking about a day, but I've changed that to be a multi-day trip. There are also now chapter titles.

Sadie returns to the ranch house that evening with a concerned frown on her freckled face. Greets everyone with as much snark as ever, but Arthur knows her well enough these days. She doesn’t even put Branwen back into the stable before cornering him where he’s sitting against the front of the house.

“Why do we need to have John standing guard?” she asks warily. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

Arthur closes his journal and stands slowly, stretching as he does. With a vague gesture toward the stable, he begins to walk. This conversation is better had in private. Sadie rolls her eyes, sighs, and leads Branwen after him. He doesn’t speak until they’re alone.

“Colm showed up, tried to run us off.”

“That bastard!” Sadie hisses. “Did anyone get hurt?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, nothing like that. Didn’t even come to a fight. Way I see it, Colm’s boys ain’t quite loyal enough that he can justify killing us in cold blood, seeing as we’re mostly women and children.”

She presses her lips into a thin line. “You really think they’d turn on him?”

“Not sure,” he admits. “But I’m willing to bet Colm isn’t either. John’s just out there in case they do something dumb.”

They fall silent as Sadie leads Branwen through the doors. Unsaddling a horse has become second nature to all of them, a calming routine after a long day of riding. While Sadie takes care of the tack, Arthur picks up a curry comb and begins brushing the dirt out of Branwen’s reddish-cream coat. She nickers in greeting.

“The newspaper’s in my saddle bag, along with a letter for a mister Arthur Callahan,” Sadie says as she sits down to polish her saddle.

“And I’m sure he’ll be the first to read it,” Arthur replies with a half-hearted glare. Sadie only smirks.

Bob wanders over and noses at her head, earning himself a scratch under his chin. That big golden monster is sweet as can be whenever Sadie is around. Anyone else is liable to get bit. Arthur is slowly gaining his trust by sneaking him apple slices, but he still wouldn’t put a bridle on him.

“So what did it say?” Arthur asks after another few breaths of silence.

“It’s from Hosea, I think. I didn’t actually read all of it, or even much past the first few lines,” she admits, drawing a surprised noise from Arthur, which in turn earns an annoyed sound from her. “Just because I liked laughing at the lies that grumpy old coot told his dearest auntie doesn’t mean I don’t have manners.”

He laughs. “Sure, Mrs. Adler, whatever you say.”

“Just read the damn newspaper, Arthur,” she snaps with a warm chuckle.

At her prompting, he finally sets the curry comb back down and pats Branwen on the side. He mutters something sweet and mindless to her before walking around her and digging through Sadie’s saddle bags. The newspaper and letter are folded together near the top.

“Any trouble in town?”

“Nope. You were right, nobody there even noticed me. Ain’t like I went robbing with you folks, after all.”

With a hesitant hand, Arthur sets the letter aside for later. Hosea’s wisdom and words are a strong pull, but first he needs to know what they’re facing. The newspaper has plenty to say.

 

 

> WANTED DEAD or ALIVE
> 
> DUTCH VAN DER LINDE
> 
> As the leader of the VAN DER LINDE GANG he is wanted in connection with the robberies of multiple trains, boats, and banks, as well as connected murders. All members of his gang will be met with reward whether captured DEAD or ALIVE.
> 
> The gang was last spotted near SAINT DENIS, but they are suspected to have fled NORTH toward ROANOKE RIDGE.

 

“That could be worse,” Arthur mutters to himself. “At least there’s no mention of us going west, so they might not be on our trail quite yet.”

“Here’s hoping. Can’t stick around here if the law’s on our tail,” Sadie points out sourly and Arthur wonders for a moment at how easily Sadie has slipped into the outlaw life. He can’t help but think about the picture of Black Belle he has hidden away in his satchel. The two would have gotten on famously.

Hesitating slightly over the letter Sadie so carefully opened with a knife, he slips it into his satchel, then stows the newspaper as well. Whatever Hosea said is probably best read alone. Sadie finishes with the saddle and hoists it over one of the stall walls and turns to Arthur with her thumbs tucked into her belt.

“So what are we doing here? With Colm on our back, we can’t just sit around with our thumbs up our asses,” she says. Her voice is more gentle than any time she questioned Dutch similarly. Perhaps she never really trusted Dutch after all, or perhaps Arthur has simply proven himself worthy.

“We talked after you rode out,” he admits. “What we’re doing here is becoming something like decent folk, or at least making an honest effort. World’s changing. If we keep fighting it we’ll all die.”

Sadie’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“What, y’all’re really going straight?” she asks.

Arthur sighs and leans against one of the poles dividing the stalls. Rubs a hand over his face, down his chin, a habit left over from a time when he had a beard long enough to fiddle with. Their plan must be even harder to believe from someone who hasn’t seen them doing anything but running scared.

“It didn’t used to be like this. We was always criminals, but we weren’t like we have been,” Arthur tries to explain. Even to his own ears, he sounds desperate. “We moved with the seasons more than the law, gave back some of what we stole to folks who needed it, and tried our best not to kill folk who didn’t need killing.”

“And then Blackwater happened, I’ve heard about that enough already,” Sadie summarizes, waving her hand to speed past that tired topic. Arthur shakes his head.

“Part of it was Blackwater, but mostly I think it’s the world,” he admits. “Sadie, we just been frogs in a pot.”

She simply stares at him vacantly.

“Frogs in - oh, nevermind that,” Arthur mutters. Right. She was living in Ambarino, after all. “Means the world’s been changing around us and we ain’t even noticed. Now we’re seeing it and we either gotta learn to live in it or it’s gonna kill us.”

“So what, we settle down and become ranchers in this broken down shithole?” she asks flatly.

“Yeah, I guess we do.”

His candid answer seems to catch her off guard. Out of the corner of his eye he can see her scanning him, looking hard enough that he damn near feels it. It’s as if she’s trying to find the pieces to a puzzle in his dejected tone and tired eyes.

“One person causing trouble is all it’ll take for the law to find us,” she points out. “You really think everyone here wants to be a rancher?”

“If someone wants to go on living the way we have then we’ll give them whatever supplies and money we can spare. They can go find somewhere new to start over,” Arthur explains.

Sadie stares, dumbstruck. He tenses in preparation for the admonishment that must be coming. But it doesn’t. Instead she sighs in relief, as if he’s finally said something reasonable, and smiles sadly.

“Good, if you tried to force them you’d be doomed to fail,” she says. “Better to say goodbye than to hang side by side.”

Her approval takes a weight off his shoulders that he hadn’t known was there. Sadie is revenge-hungry, blood-thirsty, and still one of the most truly decent folk he’s had the pleasure of calling family.

There are still words to be said here. Doesn’t take a conversational genius to know that. All the same, Sadie seems to understand what he means when he ducks his head and nods, because her smile grows just a bit wider. She claps him on the shoulder and steps back.

“Go read that letter. He wouldn’t write if it weren’t important,” she says and walks unceremoniously out of the barn, leaving him alone with the horses.

Sadie’s cut on the top of the envelope was clean, but the edges of the paper are already slightly frayed from being handled. The return address is to Annesburg, care of a Beatrice Callahan. One of Hosea’s more interesting covers, to be sure. It was off-putting the first time, but Hosea pulled off that dress better than any of them expected. Arthur slides the neatly folded letter out gingerly. His heart aches at the sight of Hosea’s neat handwriting.

 

 

> Arthur,
> 
>  
> 
> Hopefully this letter finds you and your family doing well. Most of your brothers have asked me to pass along the same sentiment. William stands by your father, but I am sure that comes as no surprise to you. The rest of us feel your absence keenly.
> 
> In the time since you last saw us, we have traveled North to escape the dangers of Saint Denis. You father insists we are safer here. As of writing we have only had one brief encounter with the storied Murfree Brood and escaped unscathed. Additionally, you will be glad to know that my injury is healing well.
> 
> News of your father is not so cheerful, I am afraid. The sudden passing of a recent enemy has soothed his nerves somewhat, but his poor temper and disinterest in reason have led him to make a fool of himself once more. Lately his fascination is with the Indians, who he has become quite friendly with. Their young men appear fascinated with him. This is a feeling you can understand, I am sure.
> 
> That Michaels feller has been bringing friends around lately to take over your chores. Though many hands make for light work, I cannot bring myself to enjoy their company, for they are as crude and mean as he is. I worry for us all.
> 
> If things continue as they are, I may come to visit you out west, along with your aunt and perhaps some of your brothers. I will always love your father, but I cannot follow him if he refuses to stay true to what he once believed.
> 
> Give my best to your family.
> 
>  
> 
> With all my love,
> 
> Beatrice Callahan

 

Finishing the letter brings no relief from the anxieties eating at Arthur’s chest. Still, an undeniable warmth fills him as he reads Hosea’s carefully chosen words. All he can do is wait and trust that the letter speaks true. He takes a steadying breath and makes his way back to the house.

 

* * *

 

Hosea’s news sits heavily in the air that evening. The camp is equally torn at the grim account of the gang they left behind. Still, it is better to know than be torn apart by whatever fantasies the mind can conjure up.

“Least the stew has plenty of meat,” Kieran points out over dinner, aiming between humor and optimism. He misses by a country mile.

The rain returns as dark falls. Sean stays up on the couch with a bottle of beer in his hand, but most of the others shuffle off to bed simply for lack of entertainment. Javier and his guitar would do wonders for the mood. Even Sean’s ridiculous mouth harp might help. Still, this night will be a quiet one, so Arthur makes to take first watch. Charles catches his arm.

“Come out to the barn with me,” he says quietly and Arthur nods. Whatever is on his friend’s mind, he trusts that it’s worth braving the rain. They both gather their coats from where they hang on the wall hooks.

“Going somewhere?” John asks, looking between the two of them.

“Just to talk a bit. I’ll join you on watch when we’re done,” Arthur replies before following Charles out into the dark. He feels eyes on him even after the door swings shut behind him.

They don’t speak until they’re safely in the barn, away from the steady drizzle. Arthur lights a cigarette. Charles shakes his head when offered one, then takes out his knife and a hunk of wood instead. It’s already sharpened to a point, but he continues to shave away thin layers.

“What’s on your mind, Charles?” Arthur asks between drags.

Charles shrugs. “Wanted to see how you’re doing with all this.”

“That ain’t important, so long as everything gets done,” Arthur says. Charles shakes his head before all the words are out.

“You know that ain’t true,” he says firmly, but still kindly.

And Arthur does, that’s the worst of it, because he knows that if he burns himself out it could cost these folk their lives. He stalls. Blows smoke out of his mouth slowly, takes another drag. Tries to think of something to say to the one man who can read him like an open book.

“I feel like I’m lost,” he finally admits. “But I felt that way for a while now, just wasn’t leading the pack before.”

Charles hums in agreement, or acknowledgment, or something else. It doesn’t much matter. Arthur continues, growing more agitated.

“Charles, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. We got Colm on our asses now, Pinkertons still out for blood, and nowhere to go.”

“Thought we were staying here,” Charles points out in his damnably calm tone.

Arthur’s breath catches, caught off guard by the reminder, and he sighs. He’s still in the mindset of fleeing; it’s hard to remember that they’re not now. They’re staying here.

“Just… don’t want to get anyone killed,” he mutters quietly, then draws on his cigarette so he doesn’t have to keep talking. There’s a long few seconds of silence as Charles puts his words together before speaking. When he does, his tone is gentle and his eyes never leave the wood in his hands.

“Death can happen at any time, to anyone, for any reason. All you can do is put yourself on a path and hope it doesn’t dead end. You’re giving people an option to pick their path. That’s more than Dutch would have done. If they’re following you it’s because they think you’re going the right way.”

“What if I’m not?”

Charles pauses in his whittling and finally meets Arthur’s eyes. “There is no right way. You just have to pick a path and ride.”

Arthur huffs out half a laugh. Kernels of wisdom from Charles Smith, wanted criminal and philosopher extraordinaire. His chuckle draws a smile from Charles, or as much of a smile as Charles ever gives. They sit in a more comfortable silence while Arthur finishes his cigarette and Charles whittles his wood block down to nothing. Finally, just as Arthur is about to suggest that they head inside, Charles looks back up at him.

“So you want to tell me what’s going on with you and John?”

Arthur’s heart jumps instinctively before he reads the humor on Charles’ face and the amusement in his voice.

“Same thing that’s been going on for damn near ten years,” Arthur says dismissively, then smirks. “Why, are you getting jealous now?”

With a chuckle, Charles shakes his head. “Nah, I told you that ages ago. Just had to give you a hard time is all. Seems you two are dancing around each other more these days.”

Though he rolls his eyes, Arthur knows what he means. Without Dutch hanging over them they’re trying to figure out where they fit all over again. Now that they’re not being led to compete for the esteemed position of favorite son, and now that Arthur has finally put John’s disappearing act behind them, things feel different. They’re still as close as ever, but that strange spark they had back before Abigail, before Jack, has made its return. Charles takes mercy on him and pulls him out of this thoughts.

“C’mon, let’s get back.”

He claps Arthur on the shoulder as he passes and Arthur gives an appreciative smile. Better to have Charles being cheeky with him than have to sort out some petty jealousy, but then that’s why he and Charles are friends in the first place. They understand each other.

When they’re back in the house, Charles gets himself ready to sleep and Arthur latches the door. John is already keeping watch at the window near where Sean is snoring away. He steps over to Arthur so he doesn’t have to speak above a whisper.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just checking in,” Arthur assures him. Doesn’t mention the lighthearted teasing. Definitely doesn’t mention the deeper thoughts. “Anything happen?”

“Nah, just the ladies gossiping upstairs and Sean trying to keep the whole house up. Ain’t like we can’t handle ourselves for a few minutes,” John replies. “You two talk about what we’re gonna do with this place?”

The question catches Arthur off guard, but this is one of the topics that is buzzing in his mind constantly.

“I mean, I figure we’ll have to get some animals, I guess,” he says.

“Heard some folk a while back talking about how chickens and goats are good to start with. Maybe we can see about buying some of them in Valentine,” John suggests.

Arthur can’t help how the corner of his mouth curves up. Here’s John, never ranched once, but he’s already trying to puzzle it out. The man’s not half as dumb as he sometimes acts.

“Sounds like something to look into,” he agrees. “We’ll give it a shot once things have cooled down a bit longer.”

John hums in reply and Sean snores behind them. They part then, keeping each other quiet company as they look out opposite windows. Time passes in such a haze that he hardly notices it has at all until he hears John wake Kieran and Charles to take over. He’s asleep as soon as he lays down.

 

* * *

 

There’s a few days of peace while the rain continues to pour. It comes and goes, worse some days than others, but the nearby river doesn’t swell enough to threaten their land. That alone is an odd enough thought. Who ever believed they would have land to think of as theirs, instead of just a camp, or even a tent?

On the afternoon of the first day, Kieran seems to sense the uneasiness of the cooped-up crowd and diffuses it in a way that only he would think to try. He disappears into the side-room that once was a pantry and kitchen, returning with an old broom and a few buckets. Then he begins to sweep.

To his credit, Kieran doesn’t ask anyone else to help him. Cleaning had always been his job when they were with Dutch. Maybe it was just a trained response to boredom, or maybe he still felt he owed it to them. Whatever it was that started it, the spreading itch to do something leads to the whole lot of them joining in.

By the time the rain stops falling the house look almost like it could belong to normal folk.

The next day, Sadie pulls Arthur to the side.

“I’m riding out tomorrow morning,” she says in a tone that allows no argument.

Arthur nods and takes a long moment to process that. “Is it about Colm?”

“You know me too well, Arthur,” Sadie smiles. “I want to see that bastard swing, or just shoot him myself if I can manage. While I’m at it I might give bounty hunting a try.”

It’s an honest life. Dangerous, sure, but he knows Sadie well enough to understand why that isn’t an issue. What does she have to lose, after all?

“Well, Mrs. Adler, you’ll always be welcome here,” he reminds her. “Make sure you and Bob get a proper meal before you go, and take some of that dried venison with you for the road.”

He hadn’t even realized she was tense until her shoulders sag in relief. It occurs to him then that she may have been hoping for his blessing, even if she didn’t ask his permission.

“Thank you, Arthur,” she says warmly. “I’ll go let everyone else know. Oh, and if you write a letter to Hosea I can post it for you on my way out.”

And that’s how Arthur ends up sitting in front of a blank page torn from his own notebook.

The first try is nothing short of a mess. Half of the lines are full of scribbles to hide misspellings or false starts and he fills a page without saying anything important. Before giving it another shot, he reads Hosea’s letter one more time. Then he puts some thought into what actually needs to be said.

 

 

> Mother,
> 
>  
> 
> While it is good to know you are safe, knowing that things are no better than we left them is disheartening. You are always welcome here, as are my brothers, so long as they behave themselves. These days we are aiming to stay out of trouble. Father tends to create it wherever he goes, you know that as well as I. Now that we are away from him we are trying to live like decent folk should.
> 
> This ranch we have settled at is not terribly far from that livestock town Valentine, where cousin Sadie picked up your letter. Also nearby, perhaps even closer, is a nice town called Strawberry. An odd place, but charming in its own way.
> 
> If you come to visit, be wary of a gang that still runs in the area. They go by the name O’Driscoll and are not happy with us being here, but it would seem we are not currently worth their trouble.
> 
> Tell Michael I look forward to meeting him in hell, or else tell him nothing at all. Give our love to the rest of the family. Even father, if he will hear it.
> 
>  
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Arthur Callahan

 

The next morning he hands the letter off to Sadie as she finishes packing a faded red carpet bag they found while cleaning the house’s loft. Everyone is up early to see her off. Jack, sweet boy that he is, gifts her with one of his books so she won’t be bored on the road. She tucks it away with all the care one might give a precious gem.

Despite the gathered crowd, there isn’t much to say. They all tell her not to be a stranger, that she’s always welcome, and how grateful they are to have met her. She trades snarky jokes and wipes what might be a tear before it can fall. Promises that she’ll send any important news she hears to Strawberry, where less of them will be known. Then she rides off into the sunrise. For the rest of the day, camp feels far too quiet.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! Your support, especially comments, help keep me going.
> 
> A huge thanks to the kind encouragement from the Horseshoe Overlook discord! It's a small, quiet server of RDR2 fans. While we're built for creators, we are happy to have anyone around! Feel free to join us with the invite code "TUa6HY2" and come chat.


	6. Chapter 1: One Step At A Time, Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware of the new suicidal thoughts tag. It is very minor, but may be important for some.

Within a week of Sadie riding out, Abigail is about ready to rip John’s head off. She spends her time on chores, but there’s more than enough people to handle them and not nearly enough to distract her. Even Jack takes to reading in the barn to avoid her. Arthur decides to take mercy on poor John and intercepts her when she’s searching.

“Arthur, where is that good-for-nothing man?” Abigail snaps as soon as she sets eyes on him.

“Nevermind him, Abigail, I need your help with something. He’ll be here to yell at when we get back,” Arthur assures her, lips pulling into a smirk.

“Well, where are we going?” she asks as her anger stalls.

“Strawberry.”

What John doesn’t understand - and might never, at this rate - is that people like Abigail are as wild as any animal. She reminds Arthur of that poor painted cougar he helped that kind woman recapture for Miss Margaret. Sure, the paint didn’t seem to be hurting it none, but it was already pacing its cage by the time Arthur returned to the caravan a final time. Bored. Anxious. Angry. Abigail needs excitement too, or she’ll just as readily bite their throats out.

“We need to pick up supplies, maybe some window glass, and I think we best sell some of these pelts too,” Arthur explains as he leads her to their wagon, where Old Boy and Branwen are already hitched. They worked well together on the trip from Shady Belle, so they’ll be able to handle this easily.

“I need to see about picking up some new clothes for Jack, too,” Abigail says, already sounding more relaxed than she has in days. “He’s grown again and his pants won’t fit on him for much longer.”

They climb onto the wagon together. She doesn’t ask for his assistance and he doesn’t offer it, though he wouldn’t be opposed to helping. Mary-Beth waves as they pass her watch post by the front gate, then ride on down the path.

“We’ll stop at the trapper first and drop off the deer pelts I’ve got in the wagon. That’ll give us some extra for supplies,” Arthur says as they trot along with.

“Do we really have enough money to go buying things?” Abigail asks solemnly. It’s not a worry Arthur likes to hear, but at least she waited until they were away from camp.

“Not nearly as much as I’d like. I had some saved up, but we’re stuck between lives now and that means there’s no money coming in. Sure, we all agreed not to go robbing, but we can’t exactly go find proper work.”

“It’ll just take time,” Abigail says firmly, as if she can will it so. “These pelts will help some, right? And maybe we can find ourselves some chickens in Valentine so we can sell eggs.”

“That seems like the best plan we have right now,” he agrees.

“So you think we’ll be safe going into Strawberry?” Abigail asks. Her eyes dart around them, as if she’s suddenly remembered that they’ve got prices on their heads.

“Safer than Valentine, at least,” Arthur points out. “We ain’t done too much in Strawberry, except for that disaster with Micah. I’ve been back a few times since and they ain’t given me trouble, so I don’t reckon they’ll recognize us now.”

“What about the trapper?” she presses. “He travels all the way to Lemoyne, surely he’s seen the posters.”

Arthur shakes his head. “He’s seen them, sure, but he’s known the price on my head for a while now. So long as we don’t cause trouble for him, he won’t cause trouble for us.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“I think he’s sympathetic to folks like us,” Arthur confides. “Trust me, you’ll understand when you meet him.”

The road to the trapper takes them a little out of their way, but they still arrive at his stall well before the sun is high in the sky. His camp overlooks Riggs Station. Private enough thanks to the cliff on one side and close enough that he can benefit from the station’s traffic. Arthur and Abigail leave the wagon just off the road, unload the skins, and walk up the hill to the source of the campfire smoke. The stall is empty except for the trapper himself.

“Ah, welcome back!” the man calls jovially when he sees them approach, setting aside the chaps he was working on. “Heard you’d gotten into some serious trouble, wasn’t sure when I’d see you again. Definitely didn’t think it would be way out here.”

Arthur chuckles. “Well, I’ve decided to stay away from that trouble.”

“For the sake of this nice young woman here?” the trapper asks, nodding to Abigail.

“No, no, this is my friend, Miss Abigail Roberts,” Arthur corrects him, and the trapper doesn’t bat an eye.

Abigail, for her part, seems to have realized what Arthur was trying to explain. The trapper may be dressed simply, armed only with what is necessary, and sporting the long beard of a mountain-dwelling hick, but he’s well spoken and polite. Something about the way he sets up camp and holds himself at alert even during a casual conversation feels… familiar. A man like him would have been completely at home in the gang - and clearly doesn’t have any concern over Arthur’s misdeeds.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mister,” she greets him, holding her hand out over the table.

“Tom Kirtley. The pleasure is all mine, ma’am,” he replies warmly as he shakes her hand.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much variety for you this time, Tom,” Arthur says, hefting the pile of deer pelts onto the counter. With a practiced eye, the trapper looks over each pelt for tears or imperfections. Perfect pelts are gently rolled and set to his right, while the others are moved to the left. A few of the most ragged are tossed carelessly into a pile on the ground.

“So I have to ask, what really happened over in Saint Denis?” Tom asks as he examines the haul, sounding almost casual.

“Nothing nice, that’s what,” Arthur huffs. “Whole group ended up splitting. There’s still plenty out east, or at least that’s where they were, but some of us came back this way looking for some peace.”

“That little boy alright?” Tom asks, pausing in his task to look up at them both.

“Yessir, he’s fine,” Abigail replies.

“Abigail here’s his mother,” Arthur explains and Tom hums in understanding.

“Well, Miss Roberts, I’ve heard a great deal about what a sweet boy you have,” he says with a warm smile. “Treasure him, they always grow up far too fast.”

“I do,” she assures him and can’t help smiling back.

He does some quick addition and then hands over the bills and coins without another word. Arthur does a quick count, as always, to be sure. His eyebrows shoot up.

“You buying deer pelts for five cents more all of a sudden?” Arthur asks. “This is thirteen even, should be forty cents less.”

“Temporary price change, related to the supply,” Tom explains without even attempting to sound convincing. “Go get some extra vegetables for your dinner or something.”

Arthur smiles and nods. “Thank you. Stay safe out here.”

“You two be careful on the roads!” Tom calls after them.

Abigail is still grinning widely by the time they arrive back at the wagons.

 

* * *

 

By just past noon, they’re parking the wagon outside of Strawberry’s general store. The town has recovered even better since the last time Arthur visited. If he hadn’t been part of it, he’d hardly know that half the town got shot up less than a year before. They climb down. Abigail makes for the store, but Arthur stops her and hands her nine of the thirteen dollars.

“You go ahead on in, I want to check on something,” he says and waves her on.

She wastes no time immersing herself in civilization. It’s a wonder she ever agreed to go along with Dutch and live in a forest, seeing as she wants so badly for a civilized life. Well, civilized, perhaps, but not so boring as their days have recently been. While she shops around the store, Arthur wanders over to a lot of land that holds wood and other supplies for building up the town - given how quickly the place is growing, it’s no wonder there’s a business started up to take advantage of it. He seeks out a man who looks important and finds him inside a small wooden building filled with filing drawers. The man is leaning over a table covered in books and papers with clothes so clean that he couldn’t possibly be a manual worker. Arthur raps his knuckles on the frame of the open door.

“Excuse me, sir?”

The man whirls around with a gasp, startled from his thoughts.

“My good man, you nearly frightened the life out of me!” the stranger laughs and wipes his balding brow. “What can I help you with?”

“Oh, uh, well I’m here to see if you might know where I could buy some glass,” Arthur says and scratches at his chin. “Trying to replace a window, which is something I do not have much experience with.”

“Ah, of course! We have glass here, that’s what we’re here for!” the man replies in a damn near sing-song voice. Arthur tries not to wince. “My name is Sullivan Whittmeyer and I would be happy to help you put your home to rights.”

“Thank you-” Arthur begins to speak, but is interrupted almost immediately.

“Where might you be living? Not South, I’m sure, or you would have gone to Blackwater, yes?”

“Um, no. North, actually.” Every well-intentioned and cheerfully spoken question strains Arthur’s nerves ever so slightly. He doesn’t have a story prepared for this, doesn’t have any idea what to do here.

“North! Wonderful. Where up there? Whittmeyer Wood & Supplies has, well, _supplied_ the materials for half of the houses up north. Much of Valentine, as well!”

The man rambles on and on, but Arthur scrambles for an answer. When the odd man falls silent and looks to him expectantly, Arthur finds the truth rising to his lips.

“The place seems to be known as Hanging Dog Ranch. Looks like there used to be a gang living in it, but someone must have cleared them out.”

Whittmeyer’s eyes are wide. “I’ll be darned, someone back at Hanging Dog Ranch? My father helped build that place, you know, back before its owners were killed. It’s been in the hands of one gang or another ever since then. And you said it was empty?”

“Just a few squatters,” Arthur shrugs. “We heard it was more or less unclaimed land and thought it was as good a place as any to make a go of it, but I guess whoever was in the place didn’t take too much care with the windows.”

“Let me just…” Whittmeyer turns and begins examining the filing drawers. He opens a drawer, peeks at a few envelopes, and then closes it, only to repeat the process again. Finally, after too many uncomfortably quiet minutes, he holds an envelope in the air victoriously and then begins unfolding the contents. “Here it is! This should have all of the specifications. Now, which windows are out?”

Reluctantly, Arthur steps closer to look over Whittmeyer’s shoulder at what appear to be diagrams, notes, and even blueprints for the ranch. It takes a moment to decipher them, but he manages to get himself oriented properly once he notices the placement of the barn.

“This one here, to the left of the door,” he says and points to the spot on the paper. “And that small shed on the east side of the building is gone.”

“Ah, what a shame,” Whittmeyer murmurs and even manages to sound a bit disappointed. “Well, how about this. I can sell you the glass to repair the window today, and you let me know when you want to rebuild that little hut. It would have been great for storage, or even as a guest house.”

“That’s a great idea,” Arthur replies. This time his smile is even genuine.

Thankfully, Whittmeyer stays quiet - with the exception of his humming - while he writes up the order. Even leaves the small room for a moment to have his workers load the glass onto the wagon Arthur indicates as belonging to him. Doesn’t say anything that Arthur has to reply to until after he’s paid, thank goodness. Then he finally says his first sentence that has mattered all damn day.

“Hanging Dog isn’t exactly unclaimed, you know,” he points out, still making casual, cheerful conversation.

“Oh?” That’s a problem. Potentially.

“Yes, after the original owners passed, the land went back to the bank - the one in Valentine, I believe. You may want to speak with them if you would like the official deed and such,” Whittmeyer explains. “Best of luck fixing the old place up. Remember, you can come to Whittmeyer’s Wood & Supplies for all your happy home needs!”

Arthur nods, gives a wave, and does his best not to look like he is fleeing the lot. No man with that much cheer should be trusted. A smile held for that long isn’t natural in the least. By the time he arrives at the wagon, Abigail is already leaned up against it.

“Took you long enough,” she says with no real bite. “What were you off doing?”

“Got some glass to fix that window,” Arthur replies. “You get everything?”

“I managed to get enough, at least. Picked up a new set of clothes for Jack with my own pocket change, even,” Abigail tells him as she climbs back on the wagon. He’s about to follow her when someone approaches the back of the wagon.

“Hello, sir, madam, may I have a word?” the man calls out pleasantly.

Abigail stills and Arthur shoots her a glance that, if she caught it, will tell her to stay calm. He walks over to meet the stranger. The man has a long, well-kept moustache with chops groomed to match. On his hip is a shining revolver. But that’s not what makes Arthur’s heart damn near stop in his chest - no, that would be the silver star clipped onto the man’s tan jacket.

“Hello, sir,” Arthur says. “Is there something we can help you with?”

“Why, I hope so. My name is Sheriff Farley and I was hoping you could answer me a question,” he says and ever so casually rests his hand on his gun belt. “What is such a prominent member of the Van der Linde Gang doing all the way over here in Strawberry?”

The world narrows down to that instant. John might panic, pull his guns. Charles would probably stay silent and see how the situation played out. Hosea would try to talk his way through it. He’ll have to figure his own way.

“Sheriff, perhaps it would be better to have this conversation somewhere more private,” he tries, glancing around at the bystanders. At least they haven’t noticed the situation yet.

“How about the jailhouse?” Farley suggests smugly.

Arthur stomps down his instinct to flee. If nothing else, this is definitely not something any of the others would do.

“Sure, you lead the way,” Arthur agrees, earning looks of disbelief from both Abigail and the sheriff. “Miss Roberts, would you wait here for me? I won’t be long.”

Abigail is smart enough not to call out after him, but he can feel her terrified stare on the back of his head as he trails after Farley. The man is smart enough not to expose his back for long and quickly switches their positions. Arthur doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t know where the sheriff’s office.

“I don’t believe for a second that you’re giving yourself up,” Farley informs him coolly as they stroll up the path. “Whatever you’re going to try, think twice about it.”

“All I want is a private conversation.”

Farley scoffs, but doesn’t speak again until they’re behind the closed door of the jailhouse. Once they’re inside, Arthur holds his hands out to show he has no intention of grabbing a gun. The Sheriff, on the other hand, already has a hand resting on his. Shows how much trust he has. Smart man.

“Sheriff, you deal with many of Dutch’s boys?” Arthur asks.

“Just the few that blew the jail and shot up the town. Pretty sure you was one of them, Mr. Morgan,” Farley replies sourly. Arthur presses his lips together tightly and nods.

“Yeah, unfortunately I was. But I’ll tell you, if I could turn back time I’d let that bastard swing.”

Farley snorts. “Tell that to all the folk you murdered.”

Arthur can hardly argue there. Time to change tactics.

“Let me tell you some of what they ain’t gonna print in the papers, alright?”

“This better be worth my time,” the Sheriff warns him.

“Either it will be, or you’ll hang me,” Arthur points out.

“That’s true,” Farley agrees with a smirk Arthur could just punch. He refrains and instead starts talking, keeping his hands held out the whole time.

“Dutch picked me up when I was a kid, preached about a greater society and how we was gonna build it. Now, obviously that was all horse shit, but back then I believed it. We all believed it.”

“You were fools,” Farley interrupts and Arthur nods in agreement, despite the annoyance rising in his throat.

“We didn’t know it back then, though. Then Blackwater happened and some of us started realizing how full of shit he really was,” Arthur explains, and damn if that isn’t an oversimplification. He can’t risk losing Farley’s interest with details, though. “Whole bunch of us finally seen enough blood to put us right. Up and left a while back now, maybe a month or two.”

“So what, you expect me to believe you’ve changed? You’re a good man now because you, what, feel bad?” Farley laughs.

“Nah, I ain’t never gonna be a good man,” Arthur replies automatically. “Trying to be a better one, though.”

“Oh?” Farley prompts, still chuckling at his own joke.

“Them folks who left? We’re trying damn hard to get outta that life. Been doing pretty well at it too.”

Farley continues to chuckle along, but at least he isn’t taunting. Arthur goes in for the kill, metaphorically speaking.

“Listen, Sheriff, I ain’t gonna waste your time. I got nearly a dozen people at Hanging Dog Ranch trying to make a new life.”

That sure shuts Farley up.

“You’ve got a whole gang up there?” he asks and, despite what Arthur is sure is his best effort, his voice shakes a little.

“I guess you’d call ‘em that,” Arthur agrees reluctantly. “It ain’t like that, though. It’s a lot of women, even a little boy.”

“And men.” It sounds like an accusation. Perhaps it is one. All the same, Arthur nods.

“And some men, sure. That little boy’s father, for one, who is trying to see his son grow up. Another who is as timid as a field mouse. Hell, one don’t even have two full legs left,” he says, trying so damn hard not to let his nervous impatience make his tone grow short.

“So your little group of rejects took the ranch from the O’Driscolls and now you think you get a pass because you’re better than them,” Farley surmises.

“Did I say that?” Arthur asks sharply. “I told you, we’re looking to live like good, honest folk.”

“By what, becoming ranchers on land you don’t even own?” Farley sounds incredulous now. Arthur’s retort gets stuck in his throat and he swallows around it.

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds a bit ridiculous,” he admits and has to stop himself from reflexively reaching to scratch at his jaw.

“So what, Mr. Morgan, is your grand plan?” Farley asks with an amused smirk. “You’ve got thousands on your heads, no way to make an honest dollar, and the land you’re squatting on belongs to the bank. Even if nobody comes to kick you off, I find it hard to believe you’ve ever worked on a ranch.”

“Selling pelts is perfectly honest,” Arthur protests. “We’re more than capable of hunting enough to pay for a few chickens and goats.”

“What about to pay for the land? Feed whatever animals you do buy, or even yourselves for that matter?” Farley retorts. “And that’s assuming you don’t all get hung or shot for your crimes. Bounty hunters would love to hear where you’re hiding out, I’m sure.”

Arthur opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again before he utters a word. This conversation, like most, is getting away from him far too quickly. His skills aren’t in social abilities. Still, punching the sheriff won’t help him here - more importantly, it isn’t something an honest man would do. He knows that much. What he doesn’t know is what to do next.

“Listen, Sheriff, most of us never learned how to live honestly, but that don’t mean we aren’t trying. We just need help,” Arthur says and hates the desperate sound of his pleading. “You want the outlaw gangs gone and we don’t wanna be one, ain’t that right?”

“Guns and ropes work pretty well for dealing with outlaws,” Farley points out.

“Sure, but you ain’t gotta do that this time,” Arthur insists. “You tell us what we gotta do to make things all proper and legal, and we’ll do it.”

Farley shakes his head. “You still got bounties on you, boy.”

“Then take me.” He offers his wrists, surprising Farley enough that he doesn’t even grab for cuffs.

“Take you?”

“Take me, and let them be. I’ll go, no fuss, I swear,” Arthur insists.

“You’ll hang,” Farley warns.

“I’d do it with a smile if I could know they’d be safe.”

Farley rubs a thumb over his moustache as he considers the offer. Arthur can’t tell what’s going on in the sheriff’s head; he ain’t good at that sort of thing. All he can hope is that he’ll take pity on the women. On Jack. After a long, heavy pause, Farley sighs and rubs both hands over his face.

“I’m gonna regret this,” he mutters to himself, then looks to Arthur. “Your bounties are out of my jurisdiction, especially after that stunt at the bank in Saint Denis. Ain’t up to me what gets done with them. Thing is, I know a feller working for the federal government and I can ask him if he’d be willing to negotiate a deal.”

Arthur’s heart leaps at the possibility. The most he’d been hoping for was the local law turning a blind eye, maybe calling off some of the bounties, letting them pay the rest. A federal deal, though? That Emmett Granger hadn’t been living the high life, but he’d had safety and a little homestead. Still would if he hadn’t been such a vile man. As if sensing his thoughts, Farley speaks up again.

“Don’t get your hopes up too high, Morgan,” he cautions. “I’ll ask, but that don’t mean he’ll say yes. And the whole thing is off if you put so much as a toe out of line. This is the only chance you’ll get.”

“One chance is all we need,” Arthur assures him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Farley says, waving him off. “Get back to your little ranch. Don’t go running off, or straying too far. If someone else comes for you first then I can’t do a damn thing about it.”

“We’ll head right back.”

“You better,” Farley says, the threat so vague it barely registers. He circles around to sit behind his desk. “Someone’ll get in touch with you soon.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Arthur says sincerely. It isn’t nearly enough.

“Don’t thank me, and don’t make me regret this. Now get,” Farley replies and sinks heavily into his chair. Arthur decides that’s a perfect opportunity to make a hasty exit.

Abigail, bless her sturdy soul, is sitting on the wagon. The lead is in her hand and she is visibly tense, as if she’s a coiled spring ready to jump at the slightest hint of danger. She sees him coming almost the moment he steps outside. In the seconds it takes him to jog over, she’s already worked herself up into a worrying fit.

“What’d he say, Arthur?” she asks the moment he’s in earshot. “Is he…”

“Everything’s fine, Abigail,” Arthur reassures her as he climbs up next to her. “The sheriff and I came to an agreement. Don’t you worry about it, I’ll explain it all once we’re back at camp.”

Perhaps it’s his calm that causes her to stall in her fretting, or maybe she really does trust him that much. Whatever it is, Abigail, stumbles through a few words, but doesn’t end up forming a sentence. Instead, she adjusts her skirts and hands the reins over to Arthur. He drives them out of town in an uncomfortable silence.

Once they’re past the first crossroad, Abigail’s shoulder begin to relax, but her knee begins to bounce under her skirts. She’s twisting the fabric around her fingers and looking resolutely at the horses. They’ve known each other years now. If she thinks she’s hiding her nerves, then she has wildly underestimated Arthur’s observational skills.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he says without taking his eyes off the road.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Abigail says. Arthur waits patiently for her to continue and, as always, she does. “It’s just that while you were in there I was trying to figure out how I was going to tell John.”

“Tell him what?” Arthur asks, brow furrowing.

“If you died, I mean. He wouldn’t take it well. Nearly lost his mind that time you got kidnapped by Colm,” she explains and Arthur… doesn’t quite know how to feel about that new relevelation. “It wouldn’t be like losing Davey, or Mac, God rest their souls. Not for any of us.”

“But you weren’t worrying about everyone, you were worrying about John,” Arthur points out.

“Well, of course I was,” she snaps defensively. “He’d be heartbroken, Arthur, you know he would. The two of you haven’t been so close since I first met you.”

As bad as it sounds, that’s the truth. Abigail’s arrival hadn’t put a strain on them immediately. Hell, even when John and Abigail started to mess around, everything was still fine. She slept with half the camp back then. Even Arthur slept with her, though only once, and none of it mattered. Meanwhile, Arthur and John fooled around on camping trips and teased each other relentlessly. They bickered the same as they had for ten years, but their arguments almost never came to blows back then. Usually they would end in a night away from camp that would leave them both just as sore as a fight. In short, they were young and dumb.

When things changed, they changed fast. There’d been the possibility of something between John and Abigail since the start, but nobody had paid it much attention. Teased here and there, joked now and again. It wasn’t anything noteworthy until Arthur awoke to a commotion near the ladies’ tent.

At first, they shooed him away and told him to mind his own business. However, unlike some of the other men, Arthur had always proved himself a trustworthy friend to the women of camp. They came to him first - Susan did, specifically, with the news that Abigail was pregnant. Susan always knew him better than the rest. She placed a gentle, comforting hand on his arm as she told him that the father was John.

He’d had nightmares for months after that. Every time, he would be riding in from a hunt with John, still joking and laughing. The camp was empty. No horses, no people, not even any wagons. When they’d carefully examine the empty campground, guns drawn hearts pounding, they would find them at the center of camp: two wooden crosses, painted white and standing over freshly packed dirt.

It wasn’t every night, but it was enough to keep him exhausted. More than that, he was entirely unwilling to lay a finger on John. Arthur moved into his own tent within the first week.

Over the months, he and John drifted. Again and again John insisted that he wasn’t the father, and Dutch just told him to be a man. Dutch didn’t seem to care that it could have been anyone. John was constantly upset that Arthur wouldn’t be alone with him, or that Abigail wanted to be close to him, or any other number of things. His temper was worse than it had been when he was an unruly teen.

Arthur, on the other hand, was learning to live with a constant ache in his chest. The two were as similar as a songbird and a hawk, but Abigail still reminded him of Eliza. He’d only seen Eliza twice while she was expecting and it was a novel experience to witness the whole process first hand. Wonderful, yes, but it burned to see what he’d missed.

Then there was John. Just thinking about him was painful at times, as was going about his day like normal and trying _not_ to think about him. He missed John. That was undeniable. And John, oh, John was growing to hate Arthur for staying away. Then Isaac was born. John struggled. Abigail grew bitter. Almost a year later, absolutely overwhelmed and utterly exhausted, John hit his breaking point. He disappeared. For a year.

Arthur took another three to forgive him. So no, they hadn’t been so close in years and that thought terrified Arthur just as much as the sheriff had.

“It ain’t nothing, Abigail,” Arthur says after a lengthy pause. “I ain’t trying to steal your husband from you.”

“You don’t have to try,” she points out simply. Her tone is matter-of-fact, but when he glances at her face he can see the sadness. “I ain’t stupid. John’s been doing better for Jack, and he likes me well enough, but he don’t love me, not like he loves you.”

Well, at least he doesn’t have to beat around the bush.

“I’m not gonna take him from you, Abigail,” Arthur says quietly.

“You damn well better,” she snaps.

Arthur opens his mouth only to find that he has no words. Glances at her, but can’t figure out what she’s feeling. She barrels on with a sharp tongue and fire in her eyes.

“Don’t you dare waste your chance. You think you’re gonna find someone better than him? Who loves you as much as he does?” Abigail asks and that, more than anything else, tells Arthur just how serious she is. Abigail Roberts hasn’t had a kind word for John Marston in years.

“Alright,” Arthur says. That isn’t what he wants to say. There’s a storm of words in his head, but they’re not the sort he can just say, they’ll have to find their home on the paper of his Journal.

“Just don’t take him from Jack,” Abigail says and in that moment, together in a wagon on the empty road, it sounds like a broken plea.

“I would never,” Arthur replies firmly.

That satisfies her enough to put an end to the conversation. The silence that follows is so thick and heavy that he can barely breathe. He can’t help thinking about how he’s come to live such a hellish, tangled existence. Then he wonders, not for the first time, if it is worth the effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and thank you for your comments as well! They truly keep me motivated.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd appreciate your kudos or comments, they make me smile.
> 
> Visit my [main blog](https://kittleimp.tumblr.com) for general chatter or [my sideblog](https://morgan-callahan.tumblr.com) for more video game stuff!


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